


The Rhythm of the War Drums

by EuropasKiss



Series: The King is Dead, Long Live the King [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23611213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuropasKiss/pseuds/EuropasKiss
Summary: King Theomedes of Akielos enters the Kingdom of Vere, two years after emerging victorious from the battle for Marlas. The visit was arranged under the auspices of forging a peaceful alliance, but Damianos, the Crown Prince of Akielos, is racked with apprehension as he enters the Veretian capital by his father's side. As he comes face to face with the new King of Vere, he is forced to revisit violent memories of the past.
Relationships: Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince), Auguste/Jokaste (Captive Prince), Damen & Nikandros (Captive Prince), Damen/Erasmus (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Series: The King is Dead, Long Live the King [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699498
Comments: 113
Kudos: 153





	1. The Rhythm of the War Drums

**Author's Note:**

> This story is my entree into this incredible writing community and I am both excited and very nervous. I hope you enjoy.

As the Akielon soldiers marched through the open gates of the Veretian capital, the rhythmic thrum of weapons and armour echoed, reminiscent of the sound of war drums pounding on the field of battle. The Veretians looked on at the spectacle, lining the streets and the squares through which the foreign armies passed, their eyes piercing the morning light with ill-concealed contempt. Though there were crowds of them, the onlookers were ominously silent. Even the babes of Vere clung to their mothers uneasily, and buried their faces to stifle their cries. Only the sound of the march cut through the silence; an endless refrain of leather and steel. 

The Akielons were silent, too, as they pressed forward, led by King Theomedes on his warhorse, flanked by his two sons, Kastor and Prince Damianos, and shielded on both sides by a contingent of his royal guard. The drawbridge was lowered in waiting for their arrival. It groaned beneath the weight of the King, his men and their horses. To Damianos, the sound of it was mournful. It tightened the knot that was twisting in the pit of his stomach. 

As they made their approach, a dias came into view at the far side of the courtyard. At its centre stood the young King of Vere, made recognisable by his golden crown of hair and metal, both glowing in the sunlight. It infused him with an otherworldly light that seemed to shine from within. Prince Damianos had noticed this once before, on the fields of Marlas. Auguste had been a prince, then, too. A Prince when the battle had begun; a King by the time it had ended. 

The closer they came to the Veretian King, the more distinguished were the Veretians who surrounded them. Their silent stares fell more pointedly upon Damianos. Captains, Generals, veterans of the Veretian Guard. These were men of the battlefield. They knew who he was by sight. Some of them had witnessed what he had done. 

Finally, they reached the dias, and King Theomedes dismounted from his horse. King Auguste came down to meet him, unsmiling, and yet, not unwelcoming. Prince Damianos could not help but let his gaze linger on the face of the young King; on his impassive and unyielding expression. The last time he had seen his face, it had been stained with tears and with blood, and twisted with grief. In that moment, he had given everything away. 

After the Kings exchanged their greetings, King Theomedes gestured to his sons, now dismounted and standing at either side of him. “Prince Damianos and Kastor,” he said, with a small gesture of each hand. Kastor made a shallow bow. Damianos hesitated, began to speak, but stopped himself at the final moment, silenced by a renewed twisting of his insides. Silently, he bowed, more deeply than his brother. 

When he rose, Auguste’s eyes met his. They concealed less of what the King of Vere truly thought of him - or of this meeting, altogether - but to Damianos’ astonishment, they were not unkind. 

“Allow me to introduce my brother,” Auguste then said, turning to his side. “Prince Laurent of Vere.” 

Prince Damianos looked for a child to come into view. Instead, Auguste turned towards a young man who was, to Damianos, a vision of Auguste’s younger self. His skin was as fair, and he was almost as tall, though slighter and narrower at the shoulders. His hair was a few shades darker, too, than Auguste’s almost white, such that the golden circlet that rested upon it was almost impossible to make out, but for the sapphires that were inlaid at close intervals, mirroring the deep, chasmic blue of the young man’s eyes. 

The Prince of Vere regarded King Theomedes with perfect indifference, and a perfunctory bow. He turned to Kastor, then, his lips twitching as though he had tasted something bitter. But it was not until he turned to Prince Damianos that his face transformed. 

Prince Damianos acknowledged the hatred in the young man’s eyes. On some level, he even welcomed it. This was what he expected. This was right. Hatred was fitting, in the circumstances. It made far more sense to Damianos than Auguste’s forbearance. 

However, as the others looked on, the silence sharpened the tension of the scene to a knifepoint, and there was an edge to Auguste’s voice when he finally spoke. 

“My uncle, of course, you already know.” 

Damianos had continued to meet Laurent’s unyielding gaze, and so he saw the shadow that came over him as his uncle approached. The young man’s jaw slackened, and he looked away, moving instinctively towards his older brother, who bestowed upon him a look that was as reproachful as it was protective. As Damianos watched them, together, a weight bore down more heavily on his shoulders. 

He took no comfort from the overly friendly manner with which the King’s Uncle and his own father greeted each other. He did not trust the former Regent - he never had, and had tolerated his frequent visits to Akielos with profound reluctance. That he had orchestrated this visit only inflamed Damianos’ suspicions. He expected to gain something out of this, and Damianos feared that his father was too absorbed by his own self-interest to be sufficiently on guard as to what, precisely, that was to be. 

Soon, they were moving inside the palace. King Theomedes led with King Auguste, leaving Damianos to fall into step with Krastor. Damianos looked for Laurent, but he had disappeared from view, which only added to his unease. 

“I’m not comfortable with any of this,” Damianos murmured to Kastor. 

“Relax, little brother,” Kastor said, a little too easily for Damianos’ ears. Something akin to a smile twisted his lips as he tilted his head towards Auguste and King Theomedes. “It’s all under control.”


	2. Preparing for the Banquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Damianos prepares to attend a banquet hosted by King Auguste of Vere, with some assistance from Erasmus and Nikandros.

With careful fingers, Erasmus adjusted the pin that held Prince Damianos' crimson cloak over his broad shoulders, readying him for the Veretian banquet that would soon commence in the Great Hall. Though he kept his gaze fixed singularly on this task, he could feel the eyes of the Prince watching him closely. It almost made his hands tremble. The Prince had been preoccupied on the journey to Arles, and it had seemed to Erasmus that in the few waking hours they had spent alone, his Prince had observed him without truly seeing him, and the affection to which Erasmus had become accustomed felt painfully withdrawn. Now, in the Prince’s private chambers, he could feel the agonising warmth of that affection once more, and it was almost enough to make his hands tremble. He kept them still, as he worked, by the sheer force of his will.

He did not speak. He could not. He feared the only words he could conjure would betray his aching need to be at the mercy of the Prince’s desires, and it was not his place to ask for anything for himself. It was not in his nature to ask for anything, not even if such an indulgence was permitted to a slave. He wished only to serve. His only pleasure was to yield with perfect reverence to his Prince's will.

And yet, he had spent too long, adjusting the pin that held the cloak, and from the soft, gentle chuckle that he felt rising from the Prince’s chest, Erasmus knew that it had been noticed. He felt the flush come over him, burning his cheeks, but before he could withdraw his fingers, Damianos had reached for them, catching them and clasping them in his larger, stronger hands.

“You have missed me.”

The sound of the Prince’s lowered voice, deep, rough and intimate, caused something to stir within Erasmus, and against his will, he shuddered. Damianos lifted a hand to Erasmus’ cheek, brushing his hand over his crimson flush. The backs of his fingers moved across the perfect line of Erasmus jaw, and curled beneath his chin, lifting it so that Erasmus’ face was lifted to his. Erasmus allowed their eyes to meet only for a moment, before lowering his lashes and diverting his gaze. It had been long enough to see the small smile playing on the Prince’s lips.

“I have missed you, too.”

Erasmus trembled. His eyes, aching to behold the powerful beauty of the Prince’s gaze, almost betrayed him. His knees bent beneath him, as he moved to prostrate himself at the Prince’s feet; the only self-indulgent act he would allow himself. But before his knees had reached the ground, the Prince had clasped his arms, pulling him up, and against him, roughly pressing his mouth over the plump, yielding lips of his ever-willing slave.

There was movement in the doorway. At the sound of a man, clearing his voice, they lips separated. As he had borne Erasmus' weight, whilst they kissed, he did not release him immediately. He gave him a moment to find his feet. Erasmus found his feet, only to fall back down to his knees - partly in deference to the Kyros of Delpha, who now stood in the doorway, waiting, and in part to conceal his current state of desperate arousal.

“Come in,” Damianos said to Nikandros. He reached down, lightly tangling his fingertips in Erasmus’ crown of golden curls before stroking the smooth, reddened skin at the back of the young man’s neck. “You may leave us now,” he said quietly. “Enjoy yourself with the others, but not for too long. I would like it if you were here, waiting for me, when I return.”

“Yes, my Prince.”

Erasmus bowed his head to the ground, concealing behind his wordless acquiescence the pleasure of realising that his Prince already knew he would be here, waiting - knew that there was nowhere else he would be - and yet he spoke the words so that Erasmus would know that he was wanted.

Nikandros did not speak until Erasmus had risen and left the room.

“I wager that that boy is the envy of every slave from here to the shores of Isthima.”

“Perhaps,” Damianos said with a twitch of his lips, as he poured for himself and for Nikandros a cup of wine.

“You have grown attached to him.”

Damianos shrugged, handing one of the cups to Nikandros.

“I welcome the simplicity of his company.”

The words hung in the air, the both of them keenly aware how complicated their lives had become; the fallout of political machinations in Ios, a burgeoning strangeness in his father's behaviour and Kastor's increasing unpredictability. When Nikandros appeared to know not what to say to this, Damianos spoke again. “Is my father ready for the banquet?”

“Ready? He and Kastor have entered the banquet hall already.” Nikandros relaxed, leaning one hand against the wooden doorframe. “If you were hoping to make a grand entrance, I’m afraid you’ve missed your chance.”

“One grand entrance was enough, today,” Damianos said, the words heavy with the exhaustion that followed the day’s events.

Nikandros’ brow furrowed. “If I may be permitted to speak freely, Damianos - whatever this is -” he gestured towards Damianos, “this mournful regret - it is not fitting for a Prince of Akielos. You fought honourably in Marlas. Aleron fell because you were the better man and the rightful victor. You are the hero of Marlas, as much here in Arles as you were in Ios, and it would serve you well to remember it! And as for the Prince of Vere - you bore that little whelp’s insolence with more patience than I would have shown if I were in your place!”

Damianos stood silently for a moment, peering at Nikandros through narrowed eyes.

“Will you continue speaking to me in that tone when I am King of Akielos?”

Nikandros paused and considered the question, before he answered. “When you are King of Akielos, I may preface my words with “Exalted.”

Damianos almost laughed. Instead, he pursed his lips and looked around the room. The dizzyingly ornate, garish, ostentatious room that had given his eyes no place to stop and rest since his arrival. Seeking the relief of familiarity, his eyes returned to the gaze of his oldest friend, who waited with loving impatience for an answer.

“I have no regrets about Marlas, Nikandros, mournful or otherwise. I only question why it is that we are here. Auguste would be within his rights to see our presence here as a challenge to the sovereignty of his rule, or if not that, an insult to his dead father. You criticise the Prince of Vere, and yet, with what warmth and deference would you have welcomed the man who drove a sword through your father?”

“Auguste is the one who extended the invitation!”

Damianos shook his head. “His uncle extended the invitation.”

“Then, surely he must have agreed to it!”

“Surely?” Damianos asked, taking a deep breath. He felt it much more likely the case that the invitation, once extended, could not have been withdrawn without risking a diplomatic disaster. He sensed, too, that his father knew this fact and sought to take advantage of it. But there was no point in going round in circles with Nikandros. “Surely,” he said, dismissing the conversation with a wave of his hand.

They met with a handful of the King’s Guard outside Damianos’ chambers, and descended towards the Great Hall. As they approached, they passed an endless stream of Veretians, regarding them with smug superiority, like peacocks in their finery, whilst enjoying the glittering and salacious companionship of their spoilt Veretian pets.

One such pet, a youth, slender, auburn haired and lithe, made eyes at Nikandros as they passed, his lips curled into a sultry smile.

“Be careful,” Damianos said, under his breath.

“Please,” Nikandros scoffed. “I’d sooner invite a sandsnake into my bed than a Veretian pet.” Damianos sighed and rolled his eyes when Nikandros immediately followed this by looking over his shoulder and smiling back unabashedly at the boy.


	3. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the banquet, Laurent makes his feelings for Damianos known (again), while Damianos and Auguste share a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I introduce a new, original character - Prince Damianos' younger brother, Prince Alexios.

Damianos stepped into the Great Hall unannounced, and yet the hall fell silent as he entered. This, in itself, was not unusual. Even in Ios, he had not the luxury that some men enjoyed of being inconspicuous enough to step into a room, unnoticed. 

The eyes that would fall upon him at such a banquet in Ios would be adoring, at best, and envious, at worst. Here, every pair of Veretian eyes in proximity regarded him with unrestrained superiority, and the Akielon officials and soliders, in turn, responded to this defensively, eyeing their Veretian counterparts with suspicion. 

It was Damianos’ instinct to laugh. There was something ludicrous about the scene; the Akielons loose in their chitons mingling with the Verertians who were strapped into stifling garments like velvet chrysalides. It created a profound dissonance, like two musicians playing different songs at different speeds. There was a total absence of harmony. 

He leaned in to Nikandros, saying quietly, “Tell the men to watch themselves, and remind them that if they so much as look at a woman sideways, their heads will be used to ornament the castle walls.” 

“You can’t tell the difference between a man and a woman in this place,” Nikandros remarked coolly, as he surveyed the room, earning himself a glare from Damianos. He cleared his throat and straightened himself. “There will be no trouble. I will see to it.” 

Damianos moved towards the raised table in the centre of the room, the din rising once more. His father and Auguste were seated at its head; his place had been reserved beside his father, with Kastor seated on his other side, opposite the King’s Uncle. As Damianos took his seat, he observed, sitting opposite him, the young Prince Laurent. He wore gold embroidered doublet of blue velvet, the same sapphire studded circlet in his perfectly ordered golden hair, and a pair of indigo eyes that shot daggers in Damianos’ direction. Suddenly, Damianos felt the already consdierable chances of his being poisoned at this banquet increase 

“You decided to join us,” his father said, regarding him as he took his seat. His smile was without reproach. “Auguste, I trust that you will forgive my son’s tardiness.” 

“Not at all. He was, no doubt, exhausted after such a long journey.” 

There was little warmth in Auguste’s voice, yet more of it than Damianos had expected. They regarded each other silently for a moment that seemed to linger. It was not unpleasant to look at Auguste. He had an aura that seemed to resonate far beyond his physical presence. Damianos tried to imagine him in a moment of foolishness, or rage, or impulsiveness, and found that it was impossible to do so. At least, on the surface, Auguste projected a perfect calm. 

“I thank you for your patience,” Damianos said. He meant to speak quietly, but his voice had a tendency to project, and once again there was a noticeable quieting of the other voices in the room. “The journey was long, but the reward of seeing our two nations, and families, come together in peace has been very great.” 

It wasn’t loud, the derisive laughter, nor did it last for more than a second, but it was enough to draw Damianos’ attention back to Laurent. Kastor bristled, and snorted like a bull that was toying with the notion of a charge. Damianos didn’t need to look at Theomedes to know he was insulted. 

Laurent’s eyes were fixated on Damianos, such that if he had the supernatural ability to manifest his deepest desires, Damianos would be bleeding from his ears.  
The inexplicable truth was that Damianos, who did not care to be insulted in general, rather admired the courage of the boy’s convinctions, and it showed in the small, amused smile that played on his lips. This was a mistake, however, as Laurent seemed to take the smile as mockery, and his back stiffened as he begin to speak. 

“And what or who, pray tell me, do you think that you’re smiling at, you …”  
It was at that instant, as the heat rose up in the boy’s cheeks, and the fire was set alight behind his violent eyes, that Damianos allowed himself to take in how utterly resplendent he was. He shone with all the beauty of a freshly sharpened Thracian sword, and was about as soft and tender.

“Laurent.” 

If anything, Auguste’s voice was quieter, calmer than it had been before, and yet Laurent was silenced instantly. Laurent regarded his brother, and the severity of his expression gave way to something – it was not apologetic so much as a plea for understanding. And the understanding was there, suddenly, in Auguste’s eyes – a fleeting acknowledgement of the difficulty of all of this. But so, too, was there acknowledgement of the necessity of it, 

“Please see to that matter that we spoke of, earlier.” 

The boy seemed to retreat into himself, his expression becoming impassive. Damianos could not explain to himself the regret that he felt at seeing him publicly chastened in this way. In the ordinary course, Damianos would have devised a fitting punishment for such a display of insolence. But as he watched Laurent withdraw from his seat, and retreat from the table, he wished he could have listened to young Prince finish whatever it was he was about to say. 

“Insolent wretch,” Kastor muttered, loud enough to be heard. Auguste flashed a glance at him, and then pretended not to have heard. 

The mood was subdued by the absence of Laurent; an absence punctuated by the chair that sat empty, between Auguste and his uncle. Nevertheless, it could have been worse. The food, whilst overly rich for Damianos’ taste, did not seem to be laced with poison, and there were no skirmishes to speak of between his men and their Veretion hosts. And so it was with a sense of relief that his father rose, at a respectable hour, to leave the banquet and retire to his rooms.

It was less of a relief when the King’s Uncle followed only moments after, trailing behind Theomedes. Damianos watched him until he left the room, searching for a way to follow that would not be an insult to Auguste, who would be left seated alone at the table. He turned to Kastor. 

“I’ll go,” Kastor said, anticipating him. “You can trust me to keep father out of trouble.” 

Auguste’s eyes raised to meet Kastor’s, as he passed. Kastor barely stopped long enough to bow. As he retreated without a word of thanks, Damianos was thankful for Laurent’s earlier display, which somehow lessened the severity of Kastor’s behaviour. 

Auguste gestured to the seat beside him. Damianos rose, and lowered himself into it, scanning the room from this new vantage point. A King’s vantage point. Whether it was Auguste’s presence beside him or the sense of occupying his father’s rightful place at the table, it felt very different. 

“Is there anything else I can have my servants bring to you?” 

Auguste asked the question without the formality he had embodied in the presence of Theomedes. Damianos took it as it was intended – a segue into easy conversation. 

“No, thank you. You have anticipated my every need.” 

Auguste nodded. He began to speak, then hesitated, saying finally, after a pause, “My brother is…” 

“Honest?” Damianos offered, soberly. 

Auguste exhaled, furrowing his otherwise perfectly smooth brow. “Young, I was going to say.” 

“Youth and honesty go hand in hand,” Damen said, reaching over for his cup of wine, and resting it on the table before him. “There was a time when I didn't have the smallest capacity for any form of insincerity.” 

“And now?” Auguste asked. 

Damianos laughed, very softly. “Well, I am no master of the art of deception and, even if I was, I wouldn't confess it to you, Au… er… Exalted.” Damianos had never used the word before, and it caused him some discomfort. 

“Auguste,” he said, with a seemingly genuine smile of his own. “Then you will not hold my brother’s actions against him? Or Vere, in these negotiations?” 

Damianos shook his head, before bringing the cup of wine to his lips, and drinking from it. “I have a younger brother,” he said. “I know what it is like.” 

“Prince Alexios,” Auguste said, turning slightly in his chair, towards Damianos. “I had hoped he would join you – he would have made good company for Laurent, who spends too little time around young men his own age. 

Damianos imagined it, smiling vaguely to himself. Laurent, unable to restrain his tongue, and Alexios, unable to restrain his fists. It would have ended poorly. 

“You can imagine, Alexios was eager to join us. An adventure like this – the idea of it was irresistible to him. But my father thought it best that he remain in Ios. He will come to Vere some other time… soon, if he has his way.” 

Auguste nodded. Obviously, Alexios had stayed back to protect the Akieleon line in the event that some misadventure befell Theomedes and Damianos on this questionable journey. It was clear that Auguste knew this. It highlighted Auguste’s own vulnerability, the line of his ancient family having been reduced to him and his brother, who were both presently surrounded by a castle full of Akielons. 

“We will endeavour to forge a strong alliance,” Auguste said, “so that he is sure to have the chance.” 

“I will drink to that, Auguste,” Damianos said with a sincere smile. They brought their cups to their lips and emptied them. 

“I am told that you take a keen interest in horses,” Auguste said, toying with the empty cup in his hands. “If you can rouse yourself early enough and meet me in the courtyard, I will ride you out to the stables. Our beasts are the envy of Vere…” 

“And Akielos,” Damianos added, with interest. “I am aware of it”. 

“Then a horse from our stables will be a fitting gift for you to take back with you to Prince Alexios. Perhaps one day, it will carry him here to Vere.” 

Damianos was keenly aware that he had been disarmed by the easy charm of the King of Vere, not least of all because he believed that charm, and the extension of friendship between them, to be sincere. He was also keenly aware that if his passionate, foolishly impulsive and easily lovestruck younger brother were here to witness this conversation, his infatuation with Auguste would be enough to make himself and the entire nation of Akielos seem utterly ridiculous. 

“That sounds like a pleasurable way to start the day,” Damianos said with a nod of accession. 

“Very well, Damianos. I’ll have my man collect you from your chambers at dawn.


	4. Unexpected Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter between Damianos and Laurent.

The halls of the palace were subdued by the time Damianos stepped out of the Great Hall in search of his chambers. His attendance at the feast had been borne of necessity; an expected gesture of courtesy towards the Veretian King and, more importantly, a visual emblem of solidarity between he and his father – an image which, of late, required frequent reinforcement, so as to suppress those persistent rumours that a rift had opened between the King and his heir.

And yet, as the evening wore on, and after Theomedes had departed, his sense of duty had given way to something more endeared. The conversation with Auguste had been easy, and the thoughts they shared with eachother, sincere. In this, he found something satisfying –not merely because he had found himself sufficiently disarmed so as to enjoy the King’s fine eyes and charming demeanour. Far more significant was the unexpected enthusiasm that Damianos felt at the prospect of friendship with someone who was, in every way, his equal. In a world full of rulers and schemers, of clashing swords and coveted thrones, here was someone who Damianos saw much as he saw himself – as a young man, loving and beloved of his nation and his kin, carefully navigating his life beneath the heavy weight of a crown.

So it was that he and Auguste had been two of the last to leave the banquet. Damianos departed first, and found Nikandros waiting outside the doors with an escort of Akielon guards, with a look on his face that said, both, _I live to serve you_ and _Do you have any idea how long I have been waiting_? Damianos smiled, inwardly.

They spoke quietly as they made their way through the passages. Whilst the halls were almost empty, the colonnades carved long shadows in the moonlight, veiling the niches and antechambers from which they could hear the murmurs, moans and muffled cries of those who had not made it to their chambers. If the rumours Damianos had heard about typical Veretian banquets could be trusted, what they had experienced tonight was a relatively prudish affair, and the restraint had clearly been too much for some Veretiains to bear.

”You know I am not one to question your judgment, Damianos,” Nikandros whispered. “But are you sure accepting the King’s invitation for a morning ride was a good idea?”

“You _are_ one to question my judgment, Nikandros. You do it quite frequently. You are doing it now.”

“I am only concerned for you,” Nikandros countered, deflecting the deflection. “It seems ill advised.”

“You will join me, and you can bring the guards. I am hopeful that together, we will survive a visit to the stables. If we cannot defend ourselves against the horses, what hope do we have?”

“No doubt, Damianos, but that’s not what I meant.” Nikandros hesitated, grappling with self-restraint before the words came plummeting out of him in a hoarse whisper. “Your father will not approve of you dallying with the King on our first morning in Arles!”

“Who said anything about _dallying_?” Damianos said quickly, his own whispers succumbing to a tight lipped and bristling frustration. “I don’t plan on _dallying_ with anyone.”

Nikandros was saved from his own response to this, and the effect it was likely to have on Damianos, by the sound of voices and footsteps ahead. A group of men were mounting a staircase that led up to the passageway from the courtyard below. A splice of torchlight was enough to reveal the golden crown of Prince Laurent. There was a brief moment - after the men had reached the top of the stairs but before the Akielons had been noticed - in which Damianos observed the Prince in his natural state for the very first time – that is, without a scowl or a pernicious smirk marring his expression. Without them, he was possessed with an air of grace, and a delicate beauty, that was as luxurious and exotic to Damianos’ eyes as any sight, scent or taste he had known since his arrival in Vere. 

This moment lasted as long as a footfall, maybe two. Recalling the offence Laurent had taken at the banquet, Damianos steeled his expression and averted his eyes, preparing to pass him silently. But if that small smile of approval had incensed the young Prince at the banquet, Damianos’ silence only enraged him more. In truth, Damianos didn’t hear what was said, and his men probably didn’t have enough Veretian to understand it even if they did hear it, but Nikandros was gravely insulted on Damianos’ behalf, which was enough to rile up the Akielons, and to put the Veretians on the defensive. Tempers flared, barbs were traded, and the scuffle escalated in a matter of seconds. The sound of steel rang out as the respective retinues armed themselves, and threw themselves forward to protect their charges. Laurent’s rage was manifest as he watched it all unfold.

“STOP” Damianos shouted in Akielon, an order directed at his own men. The guards fell back but for Nikandros, who had just chosen to test his mastery of the Veretian language by slewing a string of insults in the direction of Laurent’s personal guard. The guard attacked, not with steel, but by raising a clenched fist. Damianos stepped in between them, pushing the guard back hard enough that he stumbled and fell into his men. The Akielon guards watched on, bristling for a fight and waiting anxiously for the order.

Laurent’s reaction was instinctive, but clumsy. He threw his fist at Damianos with considerable force behind it, but almost fell forward, and when Damianos took him by the arms and held him, and caught the pungent scent of wine on his breath, he understood why. The Veretians gazed up at him with fear and shock, as though he had taken their Prince hostage, and Damianos wondered if they were all drunk in solidarity with their Prince. 

“Stop this,” he said, now in Veretian, holding Laurent long enough for the boy to steady himself on his feet. “It doesn’t have to be like this!”

Laurent wrested himself out of Damianos’ hold and stumbled back. “It doesn’t?” he said. He didn’t slur the words, but he seemed to struggle to put them together. “By all means, tell me. How else can it be?”

“We can be friends,” Damianos offered, regretting the words as soon as he had uttered them. He knew that of his present company, no one was foolish enough to believe them. 

“We could be friends!” Laurent laughed with corrosive bitterness, making the words sound even more ridiculous. “Friends. And on what premise should our friendship be based? What is the thing that will bind us together in mutual regard? Oh yes, of course… You, having killed my father!”

The words stung Damianos, and he fired back in a rare flash of anger.

“Your father was a noble man, who lived and died with honour! Would do you think he would have to say about… _this_!” He waved his hand in Laurent’s direction.

Damianos’ raised voice echoed in the passageways. Laurent teetered, pressing his hand to the wall to keep himself upright. The words had struck him like a blow, causing a rupture in his defences. Damianos knew that he had hurt him, and he was sorry for it. That was not what he had wanted.

“I do not blame you for the way you feel,” he said, taking a step forward and lowering his voice, until it became quiet, and private between them. “You are justified in your hatred of me. I am accepting of that. But in the spirit of your own self-preservation, you must rein it in.”

Laurent blinked, his eyes flickering with some sort of sad amusement.

“If you weren’t such a hulking, undignified, thuggish excuse for a man, you would sound just like my brother.”

At those words, Damianos allowed himself a full, deep breath, and a very small smile. “From you, Laurent, I will take that as a compliment.”

Damianos gestured to his men, and proffered a small, conciliatory nod of his head at the Prince’s guard, who was glaring in his direction.

“Good night, Laurent,” he said, walking past the Prince. And then, to Nikandros, once they had departed the company of their Veretian friends, “I don’t envy him the headache he will have in the morning.”

The look on Nikandros’ face said both, _Neither do I, Damianos_ and _No… no no no no no, Damianos… not the fucking Prince of Vere!_


	5. War horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auguste and Damianos get to know each other better under Nikandros' watchful eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written in a while, due to both time constraints and a bit of a crisis in confidence. I've decide to throw myself back into it. I hope it is enjoyable to any and all who read it.

The dawn was halfheartedly breaking as one of Auguste’s men led Damianos and Nikandros into the palace courtyard. At the sound of stifled yawn, Damianos glanced at Nikandros, who was shivering, even beneath the heaviest of his woolen cloaks. Damianos smiled when Nikandros cursed beneath his breath, the words leaving his lips in a cloud of cool mist. 

“The morning air in Arles is deliciously cool and invigorating, don’t you think, Nikandros?” 

“Yes, Damianos,” Nikandros answered flatly. “Deliciously” . Meanwhile, his eyes proffered a very different sort of response – one that made Damianos rather nostalgic for the days when they were young and unbridled by propriety, and Nikandros would have had no hesitation in telling him to go screw a goat. 

The truth was that this was as far north as any Akielon of their generation had ever been, aside from various diplomats and a smattering of military spies. None of them had been prepared for the cold – that is, despite having been warned, they did not have sufficient experience to comprehend what it would actually feel like. Even in the throes of winter, still months away, the air in Ios did not cut to the bone as it did this far North. 

Damianos found it easier to embrace it, rather than fight it. He absorbed the cold into his exposed skin, succumbing to it, imagining his blood and bones turning to ice. 

“What the fuck is he doing to my mare? HEY! YOU!” Nikandros called out, curtailing their guide and storming into the centre of the courtyard, who a group of Veretian stableboys were wrangling with their horses. The boys could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen, and their small, slender forms were eclipsed by the sheer height of Damianos’ and Nikandros’ horses, which towered above them, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Sensing their keepers’ apprehension, the horses had become skittish, and the boys were pulling at the reins in a vain attempt at getting them under control. 

“Those boys don’t speak Akielon,” Auguste’s man said, watching, with a quiet look of bemusement as Nikandros fired off orders. 

“Nikandros has a way of making himself understood,” Damianos said with a half-smile. 

Damianos followed Nikandros into the courtyard. Without saying a word, he nodded to the stableboy struggling with his mare, taking the reins and running his hand down from the centre of her forehead to her muzzle, to calm her. She settled, easily, with a nuzzle to his shoulder. He stroked between her ears and long her crest, noting, as he breathed her in, that she was cleaner and fresher than she had been since leaving Ios, despite having been tended to many times along the way. 

“You have taken good care of her,” he said to the stableboy, in Veretian. “Thank you.” 

The apprehension that had been inspired by the horse was magnified tenfold when Damianos spoke to the boy, directly. He shuddered and took a step back into Nikandros, who turned and growled, clutching his mare protectively. Damianos shook his head and laughed at his old friend, earning himself the full, concentrated force of Nikandros’ glare, much to the relief of the stableboy who slipped out from between them and backed away slowly. 

Damianos’ attention was drawn towards voices across the courtyard, coming from the gates, and he turned his head to see two magnificent destriers charging towards them. One was the colour of black smoke, and the other, golden with a flaxen mane and tail. He was so taken by the form and grace of the remarkable beasts that it took time for him to notice the two young riders. And even upon seeing them, it didn’t quite register to him who they were. Or rather, he knew who they were, but they were not the same two men he had encountered at the feast the night before. 

Auguste was smiling – not the forced, practiced smile of a King, but the warm, mischievous grin of a young man, mercilessly teasing his little brother. And Prince Laurent – if indeed it was the Prince, for Damianos had yet to be fully convinced that it was – was caught up in a bout of laughter that was interrupted only by the occasional accusatory exclamation and pointing of his finger at Auguste. 

Damianos watched them, breathlessly, the transcendent beauty of them both together somehow devastating to him in its perfection. They must have ridden out before sunrise, so as to eke out this time together. This moved him. He told himself it was his longing for own younger brother that caused the scene to affect him, so, and yet he knew that this was a distraction. The truth of the matter was that he felt nothing but reverence for the mutual love of the two men before him; and yet he felt no right to witness it, let alone touch it, knowing the part that he’d had to play in the passage of their lives. 

“Forgive my tardiness,” Auguste sputtered, catching his breath from the laughter or the riding or both. “My brother and his horse were a little slower than usual this morning!” 

“No! That’s not… I… Yo… didn’t tell me you were going to… ” 

Laurent, seeming so very young to Damianos, rounded on his brother, searching for the words, and for a single tantalizing moment it seemed he was going to engage; that whatever jape or jab that was about to follow would somehow break through the disdain that had marred every encounter Damianos had had with him since his arrival in Arles. Damianos’ eyes were fixed on him, waiting intently, fascinated at the prospect of seeing what was revealed when the anger and bitterness were stripped away… 

Laurent’s eyes were still shining brightly when he turned and saw Damianos, and seizing up on this, Damianos smiled at him with pure warmth. Despite this, Laurent’s face dropped, and to Damianos, it was as if the sun had disappeared behind a black cloud. He had never seen a person’s expression change so quickly. He moved his lips to speak, but didn’t know what to say, and would have been unlikely to find the words, even if Laurent had lingered longer than a instant before charging across the courtyard towards the palace, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. 

A short time later, Auguste and Damianos were riding at a slow pace, out through the palace gates, with their men mounted and following a distance behind. The smile, having left Damianos’ face at Laurent’s departure, did not return, and though he responded to Auguste’s small talk with amiable courtesy, he found it difficult to conceal that he was not in the mood for it. 

“I hope you will forgive my brother,” Auguste said, finally luring Damianos’ full attention. “For this morning, and for what I am told transpired after you left the banquet, last night. His behaviour was disrespectful.” 

“Was it?” Damianos asked, turning to Auguste. “Do you really believe it was? I put a sword through his father and have now descended with my family upon his kingdom and ancestral home. I would not describe a few snarky remarks in passing as “disrespectful”, in the circumstances." 

Auguste regarded Damianos for a moment, calm, but unable to fully mask that this response was unexpected. 

“Are you always so blunt, Damianos?” 

“I speak the truth. Do Veretians know how to be sincere?” 

“Oh, we know how to be sincere,” he said simply, his eyes diverting to the road ahead. “Whether and when we choose to be in another question. Moreover, it is not a quality that we necessarily admire in others.” 

This only amplified Damianos’ exasperation. He turned away from Auguste, choosing not to proffer a response. 

“Very well,” Auguste said, after some time had passed, and the stables were just coming into view in the distance. “I will be sincere with you Damianos, against my better judgment, and against the wisdom of my father, who told me time and time again, never to trust an Akielon, not even if my very life depended on it.” 

Damianos regarded Auguste carefully, feeling the sting of this first taste of ‘sincerity’, sensing there was more to come. 

“There is not a day that goes by that I don’t dream about killing you, Damianos. And that is the truth. It is a fantasy of sorts. The battle is unfolding at Marlas and we have the advantage, when we hear from our scouts that Prince Damianos of Akielos will declare a challenge of single combat. I don’t even bother to ask my father who will answer the challenge. I assume it will be me and so does he.” He gestured with a wave of his hand. “You understand, this is where memory and fantasy diverge. We fight and I – how did you so eloquently put it? I put a sword through you. You die. We celebrate your death and the end of the war. My father lives and all is as it should be. And that, I assure you, is me being truly and completely sincere. Does that make you feel better, Damianos?” 

“Strangely, yes.” 

Auguste’s laughter was unexpected. It had something of the genuineness and spontaneity of his laughter in the courtyard – seemingly unrehearsed and genuine, though hardly innocent, on this occasion. 

“Another thing I can say sincerely, Damianos, is that you are not what I expected.” 

“Oh? What did you expect?” 

“Well,” Auguste said, still with traces of amusement, “you have none of the arrogance typical of a warrior whose reputation spans the breadth of the continent. I expected you to be a narcissistic brute. I also expected you to be more tactical in your diplomacy, but evidently you reserve your strategic thinking for the battlefield.” 

“Maybe this is all part of my strategy,” Damianos offered, unconvincingly. 

Auguste didn’t laugh, but it was evident that he wanted to. “That seems unlikely.” 

Damianos was a little stung, even if his remark had been made in jest. “I’m not as completely lacking in intelligence as you seem to think.” 

“I believe you lack cunning, not intelligence,” Auguste countered, more soberly. 

“Hm,” Damianos muttered, glancing at Auguste only long enough for their eyes to briefly meet. “Your brother, on the other hand – we have crossed paths only three times, and I’ve lost track of all the various iterations of ‘unintelligent’ that he has used to described me.” 

“He does have a very extensive vocabulary,” Auguste said, most sympathetically. 

“And does Prince Laurent also dream of running me through on a daily basis?” 

“I would wager he does,” Auguste said, only half-jokingly. “Or of me doing it – which is a dream more closely tethered to reality, given his age at the time. 

Damianos could not find the humour in the thought of what pain Laurent must have felt at what was a tender age. He imagined what his own grief would have been, had his own father fallen when he was a child. It moved him to speak – to ask a question that had troubled him since the day of the battle, and that he might never again have the chance to seek an answer to. 

“I expected it to be you, Auguste. When my father asked me to fight… I looked for you on the field at Marlas. When I saw it was your father, a man of his age, battle weary, weighed down by his armour…” 

“My father was not weak,” Auguste said, testily. 

“No, he wasn’t. And he stood his ground and fought bravely. But he did not bring to the fight what you would have.” 

Auguste pursed his lips together, his eyes fixed ahead. Damianos knew that he had overstepped the boundaries of courtesy, but he did not withdraw the question. Auguste’s cryptic silence made him all the more eager to know the answer. 

“I was to be the one to fight you. But then, my father was persuaded that he could beat you, and that in doing so, the victory at Marlas would be his… his legacy. His praises would be sung by the poets and the bards, for generations to come. And once that idea was put into his head, I could not convince him otherwise.” 

“Who persuaded him?” 

Auguste said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him. There was a long silence, which Auguste evidently had no intention of breaking. 

It was broken by Damianos. 

“It never sat well with me; that it was your father who I fought that day. But since coming to Arles… I confess, Auguste, that I have, for the first time, felt a sense of relief. Fighting you would have ended in one of two ways – either you would have killed me or I would have killed you. And neither of those outcomes is desirable to me.” 

They looked at each other for a time, the both of them uncertain. It seemed Auguste would not speak, and even if he wished to, the opportunity was lost when the guards who had trailed them now drove their horses forward, some of them riding ahead to secure the stables and others remaining alongside them as they made their approach. 

When Auguste rode ahead, Nikandros rode up beside Damianos, looking equal parts curious and displeased. Damianos ignored him, fully aware of how vehemently disapproving he would be of what had just transpired. 

They dismounted and entered the stables – a large stone structure, with towering hay lofts and men and women bustling back and forth like bees in a hive. Auguste walked in step with Damianos, but his mood was undiscernible. There was not a trace of his careful, diplomatic charm. Still, he carried himself with equanimity. He referred to the grooms and pages my name, and they seemed genuinely pleased to see him, and peculiarly relaxed, not a single one of them deigning to prostrate themselves before their King. 

The rows of stalls were barely visible from where they stood in the entryway, but wherever Damianos looked, beasts of profound beauty and obvious breeding were being led through the stables, some to be showered, some to be brushed, and others being saddled for riding. While Auguste exchanged words the marshal, Damianos wandered towards a chestnut stallion that was being tended to by of the stable boys, brushing his hand over perfectly tended coat, on which it seemed not even the flies would dare to land. 

“He’s impressive,” Damianos remarked. The boy looked up at him, his eyes opening wide, before gathering himself and quickly retreating towards the stalls. 

“Again. Am I really that terrifying?” Damianos asked Nikandros, who had stepped up beside him. “No, it’s your smell,” Nikandros said with a smirk. Damianos shot him a glance. 

“You do realise that I’m the heir to the throne of Akielos? I have had men executed for less.” 

“No, you haven’t,” Nikandros mildly observed. 

Damianos raised an eyebrow. “There is always a first time.” 

“Prince Damianos.” 

They turned in the direction of Auguste’s voice. He was approaching them – and he was not alone. The marshal was beside him, leading one of the most magnificent destriers Damianos had ever seen. He was black as night, and imposingly large; much larger than Damianos’ own mare. 

“He’s huge,” Nikandros said, the admiration manifest in his voice. 

“Well, I assumed Prince Alexios’ stature was something like his older brother’s. And we don’t want him dragging his feet along the ground.” 

Damianos would have expressed amusement at this, but he was too busy trying to navigate the moral and ethical complexities of lying to Auguste and his brother about this whole affair and keeping this glorious creature for himself. 

“Alexios will be beside himself,” Damianos muttered to Nikandros. Damianos approached, and the stallion succumbed to the movement of his hand across his shoulder without the smallest hesitation. He was steady, dignified, his eyes wondrously intelligent. Damianos shook his head. 

“Truly, Auguste, I don’t think I have ever seen a finer horse. You honour us with this gift.” 

Auguste looked pleased, and also a little amused. “You mean, I honour your brother.” 

Damianos blinked his eyes. “Yes… of course. My little brother… Eventually. For now…”

Auguste grinned. “You wish to ride?” 

Damianos had contemplated riding the stallion back to the palace, but it seemed that Auguste had something else in mind. 

“Yes,” he said, feeling Nikandros bristle beside him. 

“The hunting grounds are not a stone’s throw away from here. Perhaps we should see which one of us can make the first kill?” 

“With the men?” Damianos asked, trying to discern what, exactly, Auguste was orchestrating. 

“I doubt that they could keep up. Perhaps, just the two of us.” 

“Damianos,” Nikandros whispered harshly at his ear. “You cannot ride out alone. It isn’t safe and your father would never…” 

“I’m riding with the King,” Damianos said, indulging Nikandros’ condescension with visibly less patience. “And we will be back before my father has finished his leisurely breakfast.” 

A short time later, the horse was saddled and Auguste and Damianos were riding away from the stables, leaving their men to look on disapprovingly in their wake. Auguste carried a horse bow and a quiver of arrows; Damen had a spear sheathed at his side. They rode towards the woods at speed, with Damianos marveling at the power and strength of the beast that carried him. 

In the midst of their exhilaration, they did not see or sense that they were followed, or that what seemed to them to be a thrilling grasp of freedom was, in fact, the tightening of the net.


	6. The Hunt

They rode together until they reached the woodlands, which they entered through a curtain of cascading branches and dappled light. It was quiet, but for the sound of their horses’ hooves crushing the dry autumn leaves, beneath them. 

Without the full force of the sun on their backs, Damianos felt the cold wrap itself around him, crawling beneath his cloak and his chiton and spreading like tendrils across his skin. 

Auguste seemed to be impervious to it. Even their short ride, at speed, was enough to bring a touch of colour to the pallor of his face, and the thick, sapphire and gold Veretian fabrics in which he was so tightly and thoroughly laced would have been enough to cause Damianos to swelter in even the coldest temperatures he had known. And yet, the garments, in all their formality, were suited to Auguste – or at least, to Auguste the King, and gave him a sense of elevation above such worldly vulnerabilities as the sunlight or the cold. 

Even so, Damianos wondered if there was another version of Auguste, to which a chiton and a chlamys might be better suited. He tried to imagine him and Laurent both, their arms and legs bare beneath the heavy Akielon sun, riding their horses on the shores of Ios and catching the light in their golden braids. He found that he could imagine it, if he tried very hard to carve out, from his memory, certain cataclysmic events which cast a long, dark shadow across this otherwise pleasant daydream. 

Damianos’ horse crushed a dead branch beneath its footing, setting off a flurry of movement and sound, with small creatures scurrying back and forth through the undergrowth and others flying raucously into the branches above. He glanced at Auguste, who had brought his fingers to his lips for silence and had a look of mock reproach in his eyes. Damianos shook his head and smiled back at him. It was clear that neither he nor this horse were nimble or stealthy enough for hunting on horseback in the woods. He dismounted and led the horse over to a small clearing, loosely tying the reins to the low hanging branches of a tree. He lifted his spear from the sheath and held it in both hands. 

When he turned, wandering back the way he had come, there was no sign of Auguste. 

It was the first time Damianos had been alone since reaching Arles, and one of only a handful of times since leaving home. His thoughts began to wander, first, as always, to Alexios, who he knew would be missing him, despite continuing to be annoyed and outraged at being left behind. He would be missing their father, too, and Kastor. His mind wandered further, then, to Kastor, and then inevitably to Jokaste, the two of them now irrevocably entangled in his thoughts. He was quickly filled with a sense of longing and love for the both of them, mingled with irrepressible disappointment and sorrow. 

He shook his head and his shoulders, a physical manifestation of his attempt to shake off these pernicious thoughts. He had carried the weight of them all the way from Ios, and this was too pretty a place for his experience of it to be marred by events that were out of his control. He took a deep breath, and tried to be present, in the moment, taking in the vision of the lush greenery, the curious furry tailed creatures that darted across the roots and the branches, and the heady scent of moss and rotting vegetation that grew more pungent as he delved further into a thicker part of the woods, leaving the open air and sunlight behind him. 

He heard movement and, turning towards it, repositioned the shaft of the spear in his right hand. His approach was almost silent; each step was slow, and precise. As he edged closer, he heard the beast – or whatever it was – make a soft, long, grunt, the sound of it concealing that of his footsteps as he approached. There was another sound, too, that of trickling water, that grew louder as he moved closer. 

It had been too quiet for Auguste to have made the first kill, already. This was it, Damianos told himself, quietly relishing the impending triumph over a worthy adversary. He could see the movement, now, through the branches. There was another low growl. He held the spear up over his shoulder and peered through an opening in the leaves. 

Damianos’ heart pounded in his chest. His eyes opened wide and he dared not blink or move. There was a dream-like quality to the vision before him, as though a fantastic tale of his childhood storybooks had taken shape before his eyes. He smiled, a true and genuine smile, wishing with all his heart that Alexios was here to see this. 

Indeed, he had seen such creatures in storybooks, and in the tapestries and paintings that adorned the halls of the palace in Arles. Only, it was much larger than Damianos had ever imagined, even as it lowered its head to drink from the stream. And it was regal, too, its antlers towering above it like an elaborate crown. Its colour, a stark white against the vivid green of the trees, gave it an ethereal quality. 

Without thinking, Damianos stepped closer towards it, easing himself past the branches and into the small clearing. It was not alarmed, but it raised its head slowly, regarding Damianos with seemingly perfect calm. Their eyes met, and without thinking, Damianos lowered his spear, slowly, and let it fall to the ground.

“You are very beautiful,” he said. And then repeated the words in Veretian, so that it would have a better chance of understanding him. 

Only then did he hear soft laughter behind him. 

“You’ve stumbled across quite the prize,” he heard Auguste whisper, barely loud enough to be heard. “They will sing your praises as you carry it back through the village.” 

Damianos was silent. His eyes were fixed upon the creature, whose gaze upon him was likewise, unwavering. 

“You might want to kill it now. A white hart is a rare find. I doubt it will linger.”

“You expect me to kill something so majestic?” Damianos asked, without turning around. 

“Yes, that’s rather the point of hunting,” Auguste said, no longer whispering. “Besides, I’ve seen you do it before.” 

Damianos shifted his weight and looked towards Auguste. Either startled by this, or bored of their conversation, the hart disappeared through the trees.

“You couldn’t do it,” Auguste said, the corner of his lips lifting with amusement, and the furrow of his brow revealing something of his curiosity. 

“Not couldn’t. Didn’t want to,” Damianos said flatly, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I don’t need villagers singing my praises.” 

He turned away from Auguste and walked towards the stream. Crouching beside it, he lowered his cupped hands into the icy water, and brought a cupful to his lips, drinking, first, and then splashing the rest over his face. He hoped to wake himself up from the trance like state that he experienced moments before, but looking up at the King of Vere, who was now measuring him up and down with a look of incredulity, there was an unescapable aspect of the surreal to his situation. 

“Besides,” Damianos added. “We’re not really here to hunt, are we?” 

Auguste tilted his head. “I don’t think I know what you mean.” 

“I know about you, Auguste,” Damianos said, simply.” I know what sort of a man you are – what sort of a King. As the heir to the Akielon throne, it is my place to know, just as I’m sure you know about me. I’ve listened to the reports from our envoys, and the stories about you that have spread from Arles all the way to Ios. I have spoken with bribed and blackmailed Veretian soldiers and Akielon spies with first hand knowledge of how you lead and how you rule. Running off on a whim to go on a hunt, while the Akielon delegation is stationed in Arles, ready to negotiate with you and the Council – that’s something that I would do, not you. I think that you knew that about me, when you asked me to come here.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Auguste replied, but there was something of a smile on his lips. He came over and sat by Damianos on a large moss-covered rock, leaning against the hollow of a dead tree and lowering his bow and quiver off his shoulder, to the ground. He loosely clasped his hands together and sat silently – obviously, thinking.

“You want to talk then. Is that it?” Damianos asked. “Out here, alone – because the walls in Arles have ears? 

“Yes,” Auguste said, quickly and with a look of determination, as though it was both a struggle and a relief to get the word out. 

Damianos rose up from where he was crouched beside the stream and stood near Auguste, who had to crane his neck to meet his eyes. 

“What do you want to talk about?” 

Auguste shook his head, his lips pressed together. If Damianos had wondered what lingered behind the King’s mask of perfect control and calm, here was the answer before him, Auguste’s eyes now tumultuous like the sea in a violent storm. Anger. Anger and fear. 

“You must know why you are here, Damianos. You must know why your father brought you here – why my Uncle arranged it. If you are not part of the conspiracy to overthrow me – and I believe, perhaps stupidly, that you are not – you must at least see with your own eyes what is unfolding around you!” 

“I’m not part of a conspiracy,” Damianos said defensively, “and my father isn’t, either. My father is an honourable man, whatever you think of him. He has come to Arles to treat with you in good faith, Auguste. He has no ulterior motives.” 

“Do you really believe that?” Auguste asked, the words distorted by his clenched jaw. “If you do, then you’re as stupid as Laurent thinks you are!” 

Whatever Damianos was about to say was silenced by Laurent’s name. Damianos felt himself falling – tumbling into the realisation that if Auguste was right, any attempt to overthrow him would be fruitless while Laurent still lived. The implications of that were impossible for Damianos to fully realise; they were too abhorrent for him to fully let them take hold. His head began to throb. And then, in the midst of the silence that hung between them, he heard a sound – a whirring sound, that within the instant, grew louder. He flinched and, without thinking, grabbed Auguste by the shoulders and threw him to the ground. 

Auguste was winded, but only for a second. He looked at the slice across Damianos’ arm, already starting to bleed, and past it to the arrow still oscillating in the hollow of the tree, precisely where he had been sitting.

Damianos had never seen anyone move more quickly. Auguste seized the bow and quiver and was on his feet, darting through the trees too fast for Damianos to follow. Losing him within seconds, Damianos ran for his horse with his spear in hand. Once mounted, he rode along the outskirts of the woodland, judging the location of Auguste and his attacker by the birds that flew up raucously through the canopy in their wake. 

“Auguste!” he shouted. He rode hard, tracking the movement until, in the distance, a mounted horse emerged from the trees, driving away from the woods at full speed. Auguste had driven the assailant in the direction of Damianos’ voice, but he was still too far away for Damianos to make up the distance, and by the time Auguste emerged, the assailant had the advantage. 

Damianos looked down at the spear in his hand. It was a long shot without the momentum of his feet on the ground, but there were no other option. He held the shaft up over his shoulder and took a breath, reaching back to the full extent of his range of motion and then threw the spear forward, propelling it with the full force of his strength behind it. 

It flew past the rider and landed immediately before the horse, causing it to rear up violently. The rider fell to the ground, narrowly avoiding being trampled by the horse as it regained its footing. Auguste gained on him, and when he stood up off the ground and tried to run, let loose an arrow at the man’s feet, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground again. 

Auguste reached him first. By the time Damianos caught up to them, the man was on his back, hands held up in surrender, with Auguste poised with his bow, ready to let another arrow fly. 

“Govart,” Auguste said, with unmistakable disgust. 

“You know this man?” Damianos asked, dismounted, now, and catching his breath. 

“Know him?” Auguste spat the words out, visibly seething. “He is a member of my own guard!” 

Damianos regarded this Govart. There was little about him that would garner sympathy from anyone, but more perplexing to Damianos was the fact that he clearly wasn’t afraid of Auguste. Not in the slightest. 

“Your majesty,” he said, his lips twisted into a semblance of a smile and his eyes brimming with arrogance, “I don’t understand what this is about. I was simply hunting in the woods. I didn’t know that you and Prince Damianos were out there… alone. Forgive me for disturbing your private time…” 

Auguste raised the bow and it seemed, for an instant, that he would let the arrow fly. 

“Your majesty!” he said again, still unperturbed. “Why are you threatening me, hm? Are you really going to murder me for innocently stumbling upon you and the Prince in the woods? I wouldn’t do that, not if I were you. What would people say?”

Damianos watched in disbelief as Auguste began to lower his bow. “Get out of my sight,” he said to Govart, and with what could only be described as a triumphant grin, Govart rose to his feet and mounted his horse. He didn’t even flee with any sense of urgency. He sauntered, casually, in the direction of the village. 

“Are you out of your mind!” Damianos shouted, almost succumbing to the temptation to push Auguste off his feet. “That man tried to kill you!” 

Auguste was pale, and almost listless. If he heard what Damianos was saying, it did not show on his face. 

“Auguste! How could you just let him go?” 

“It was my word against his,” August said quietly, to himself more than Damianos. 

“The word of a King against the word of a miscreant!” 

Now Auguste’s eyes met Damianos’ and Damianos was silenced by their intensity. 

“Being the King does not make me invulnerable to having things twisted and used against me. It doesn’t protect me. Quite the opposite. I would be safer I was one of those stable boys, or a farmer, or the son of a merchant. And so would Laurent.” 

The way that Auguste spoke the words made it clear that whatever fear he felt was not for his own life. He was thinking of his brother. And Damianos knew that in Auguste’s place, he would feel the same. 

“Auguste,” Damianos said, solemnly, “I want you know that if that arrow had hit its mark, I would not have left Laurent to the fate that you fear for him. I would have done everything in my power to protect him, whether or not he wanted me to.” 

Taking a deep breath, Auguste reached forward, and clasped Damianos’ shoulder. 

“That is very noble of you, but if that arrow had hit its mark, Damianos, you would have found yourself alone in the woods with a dead King and no witnesses. I expect you would have your hands full doing everything in your power to save yourself.” 

Damianos expression darkened. “Are you saying…” 

August nodded. “This was as much an attack on you as it was on me. Apparently, neither of us have a part to play in the future of our great nations, if this plot comes to fruition.” 

“No,” Damianos said shaking his head. “My father would never…” 

“Then I suggest you speak to him and let him know what he has unwittingly become involved in,” Auguste said, bringing a fingertip to the cut on Damianos’ arm, and tracing just above it, gently. 

“This is going to need to be stitched up, Damianos. Come with me, back to the palace. I have a physician.”

Damianos’ feet didn’t want to move. It was starting to dawn on him, how his life might have changed, and his father’s, and his brothers’, and Laurent’s, if he had been a heartbeat slower in throwing Auguste to the ground. 

“Don’t look so bereft,” August said, his expression becoming indecipherable, once again, as he restored his mask of perfect calm and control to its proper place. He mounted his horse and casually straightened his hair and his jacket. “The advantage of keeping Govart alive is that I have a thread, now, to unravel. Let’s see where it will lead.”


	7. Damianos Takes a Bath

Damianos sank into the bath – or, at least, he tried to. It had clearly not been crafted for a man of his stature and submerging his shoulders could only be achieved at the expense of exposing his knees. It was not quite what he had imagined when he had requested that a bath be brought to his chambers, rather than sharing the bathhouse with the Veretian and Akielon diplomats who now occupied it. He had felt that after a day of tense negotiations and political posturing, he would welcome some privacy and some peace. He had anticipated neither the constraints of the bath, nor Nikandros in the room, pacing from one side of the chambers to the other, pontificating with such wild movements of his hands that Damianos found it utterly distracting. 

"Yes, you made an error, and yes, people will talk, and will no doubt make inferences about the nature of your relationship with the King – we can expect no less, given the events of this morning. But the negotiations today were surprisingly productive and people have short memories. It won’t be long before the rabble find something else to gossip over. Perhaps we can put all of this behind us and forget any of it ever happened!” 

Damianos glanced up at Erasmus, who was the one person that he had envisaged being in the room with him, albeit not leaning against a wall and waiting awkwardly for Nikandros to finish his impassioned speech. As though sensing Damianos’ thoughts, Erasmus frowned at him with something of a commiserating look. He then came over to kneel behind Damianos and, with his surprisingly strong hands, embarked upon the seemingly impossible task of massaging the knots from his shoulders. 

He winced, but it was unclear which of his companions had inspired him to do so. They were at odds with each other, Erasmus and Nikandros. Though they both loved him, each one of them took a starkly opposite approach to expressing it, and neither approach was precisely what Damianos needed in the moment. 

“We have only a few days left in Arles, Damianos, and we will make it out of here in one piece, if only you will be prepared to listen! Listen to those who love you – to me, yes, but also to your father, who spoke wise words to you today! Do you remember them?" 

Yes, he remembered his father’s “wise words”, which took the form of an excoriating attack on his judgment, followed by a litany of disturbing accusations levelled at Auguste and Laurent. 

_“You want to bed the King of Vere? Another conquest to your name? Do you have the stomach for it, even knowing that he shares a bed with his own brother? Don’t look so disgusted, Damianos – surely you have seen with your own eyes, Arles is overflowing with deviants. Have you been so beguiled by the King’s beauty and charm that you think him an exception? Well, then, bed him if you must and be done with it, but show some discretion, lest you make ridiculous fools of yourself and your family!”_

There had been so few occasions in Damianos’ life when his father had been plainly wrong, but this was one of them. That is, wrong about him seeing Auguste as a conquest, and even if that was how Damianos saw him, wrong in thinking that Damianos would proceed in a manner so lacking in courtesy and respect. 

As to the allegations about Auguste and Laurent – of those, Damianos was unsure, and it troubled him. He remembered the vision of them riding into the palace courtyard together, their faces flushed with warmth and laughter, and what Damianos thought he had recognised as brotherly love. He remembered Auguste’s fierce protectiveness over his younger brother. Was the affection and love between them corrupted at its core by something depraved and incestuous? Who was Damianos to say? But he did not want to believe it of either of them – not even Laurent, who, if the rumours were true, might be proven a hypocrite for having treated _him_ like a monster. 

“Damianos! Are you listening to me?” Nikandros shouted across the room. “What will it take for you to hear me? How… how would I have faced your brother if that arrow had struck you?” 

“I doubt Kastor would have held you responsible…” 

“Alexios!” Nikandros cried, having lost all patience. “How would I have faced Alexios!” 

“Calm yourself,” Damianos said, checking Nikandros’ behaviour with a more authoritative tone. He sat up with a splash, and Erasmus’ hands withdrew. “I told you. The arrow was never meant for me.” 

There was a knock at the door, and all three of them looked over. Before any of them could speak a word, the door was thrown open by a Veretian guard. Erasmus was startled, and Nikandros reached for the hilt of his sword. Only Damianos sat unmoving as he watched Prince Laurent walk through the door, dressed smartly for dinner in a swathe of royal blue and elaborately embroidered gold, the sapphire studded circlet perfectly poised upon his crown of gilded locks. 

Whatever advantage Laurent had hoped to gain by barging in unannounced was quickly squandered by the look of astonishment on his face, once he had regarded Damianos in his current state. He hesitated, the uncertainty showing in his shimmering blue eyes, giving him an air of youthfulness that Damianos found hopelessly endearing. But before Damianos could put him at ease, and invite him to leave just long enough to allow Damianos to receive him in more appropriate attire, the uncertainty in his eyes was replaced with his more typical look of stubborn resolve. 

“Prince Damianos,” he said, “I had hoped that I might speak with you alone.” 

“I uh…” Damianos looked over at Nikandros. Nikandros made his feelings known by immediately occupying the nearest seat and glaring back at Damianos threateningly. 

Finding it difficult to think his way out of this from the bath, Damianos began to rise… 

“No, don’t!” Laurent said, quickly holding out his hand. There was another flash of uncertainty that Laurent quietly and carefully reined in, before saying more calmly, “You may stay where you are.” 

“May I?” Damianos asked, entirely struck by the awkwardness of the situation. “I see. Thank you, Your Highness.” 

“I said that I wished to speak to Prince Damianos _alone_ ,” Laurent said pointedly at Nikandros, looking a great deal more comfortable, and formidable, with his head turned away from Damianos. 

Nikandros’ groan was audible. His eyes turned from Laurent to Damianos, transforming from threatening to pleading, and then to worrying, and then finally to a look of reluctant surrender. 

“I’ll be just on the other side of that door,” Nikandros said, not at all reassured by the reassuring nod that Damianos gave him. 

“You, too” Laurent said to Erasmus. Interestingly, the tone he used with the slave was gentler. Erasmus had been prostrated on the ground beside Damianos since the Prince entered, his face hidden. At the sound of Laurent’s command, he looked up at Damianos with a look of apprehension that matched that of Nikandros. Damianos smiled at him and tilted his head in the direction of the door. Erasmus rose, and Damianos watched Laurent’s eyes follow him out the door, surprised to see them filled with something akin to pity. 

The pity quickly dissolved as Laurent regarded Damianos again, but there was an absence of the malice that had been directed at Damianos in every one of their previous encounters. Damianos felt a rush of pleasure at this – at seeing who Laurent was, behind the veil of animosity that had always concealed him. He watched Laurent’s flickering eyes, and tightly pressed lips, as he waited for him to speak. Laurent stepped backwards, taking the seat opposite the bath and clasping his hands together. 

“You may think that my behaviour towards you has been untoward.” 

That was it. That was all Laurent said, and all it seemed he would say. He looked at Damianos expectantly. When Damianos realised that this was Laurent’s attempt at something of an apology, he wanted to laugh. With a concerted effort, he forced the laughter back. He considered Laurent’s words, and then said very soberly, “What I think is that you have a true and honest nature. I value that a great deal.” 

Laurent eyed him, closely, before saying quietly, “It has been brought to my attention that you saved my brother’s life today.” 

This time, Damianos said nothing, waiting in the silence until Laurent spoke again. 

“Thank you.” 

Damianos nodded. “You’re welcome.” And when it seemed that Laurent would say no more, “Now, if you wouldn’t mind excusing me, briefly, the water is getting co…” 

“No, I don’t think you understand. You saved my brother’s life. That… that means more to me than I can… If something happened to Auguste, I…” He shook his head, and blinked his eyes. “He is all I have left.” 

This softness in Laurent was exquisite to behold, and all the more so for the contrast to his usual hostility. But Damianos felt he could not give the moment the solemnity it deserved from the confines of the bath. Deciding, ultimately, that his desire to be closer to Laurent outweighed the authority of Laurent’s directive to stay where he was, Damianos rose. Laurent followed him upward with his eyes until his head was rolled back, and then his eyes wandered back down, the vision before him causing his cheeks to blush the colour of a sun-kissed peach. Damianos stepped out of the bath and approached him. 

“My towel.” 

Laurent’s eyes shot upwards and his brow furrowed angrily. “Do I look like a servant to you?” 

“You’re sitting on it,” Damianos said, able to supress only half his smile. 

Laurent shifted, pulling the towel out from beneath him and throwing it at Damianos. 

“Thank you,” Damianos said as he caught it. He spent a few seconds drying himself off, and then put on his chiton with far less care and grace than what Erasmus would have employed. Once dressed, he sat beside Laurent, leaning forward with his hands gently clasped together. 

“Laurent, I meant what I said. I think you are honest and true, and I would choose that over and above you showing any degree of courtesy that you do not sincerely wish to express. Don’t think you are required to come here and put on a display of niceties because of what happened with Auguste. I did what I did because it felt right in the moment. I’m sure you would have done the same.” 

“Unlikely,” Laurent said with a sidewards glance. “But Auguste would have.” 

“I’m sure he would have,” Damianos nodded. “And so, he owes me nothing, and neither do you. But there is something I want you to know – that I hope you will truly hear, and take to heart, even if you ignore everything else I ever say to you. And that is that I fought your father at Marlas because I had to. But I saved your brother’s life because I wanted to. A prince doesn’t always get to choose – a King, even less so. But to the extent that I have a choice, I choose friendship, with you and with Auguste. Now, and into the future, when we rule our respective kingdoms. Whether you want to embrace that friendship is up to you, but it is open to you.” 

Damianos watched Laurent search for words that would not come to him. In the end, Laurent said nothing, but lifted his hand to the bandage wrapped around Damianos’ arm and touched it gingerly. The proximity made Damianos’ heartbeat quicken, and it took considerable effort to keep each breath steady. After a few long moments of restraint, made more difficult by the scent of Laurent’s skin, the lustre of his hair and heat of each breath that he exhaled, Damianos clenched his fist and the bicep bulged and hardened beneath Laurent’s fingertips. Laurent quickly pulled his hand away, and on seeing Damianos begin to chuckle, groaned and rolled his eyes. 

“Sorry, I thought you were going to touch it. Your brother’s physician stitched it up well, but it’s smarting a little.” Damianos regarded the bandage with an exaggerated frown. It was, of course, an attempt to diffuse the tension of the moment which might have otherwise culminated in Damianos doing something very stupid. In the scheme of all the wounds sustained by Damianos, in battle and in the area, this was nothing more than a scratch – not nearly as potentially lethal as the proximity of Laurent’s lips to his. 

“I think you’ll live,” Laurent said, regarding Damianos’ plea for pity with all the scepticism that was due to it. 

“Even so, I think you should accompany me to the banquet hall. It seems I am late again, and your people might be more willing to forgive me if I enter with their Prince by my side.” 

Laurent considered the request for a long time, the cogs in his mind almost visibly turning behind his eyes. “Fine,” he said finally. “But I suggest you have your slave see to you before we go. Your chiton is twisted and your hair is ridiculous.” 

Damianos placed his hand on his chest and bowed his head in obeisance. 

“Yes, Your Highness. As you wish.”


	8. Damen

Once he was dressed and groomed to Laurent’s satisfaction (for Laurent had, for some unknown reason, stayed and watched Erasmus’ careful work), Damianos and the young Prince of Vere walked together to the banquet hall, with Nikandros and Laurent’s guard trailing behind them. Damianos took visible pleasure in this, but Laurent’s discomfort was manifest. It seemed to pain Laurent to say anything to Damianos that wasn’t a sharp-edged insult, and Damianos’ eagerness to embrace this new “congeniality” between them made it all the more difficult for Laurent to bear it.

Of course, Damianos noticed Laurent’s pursed lips and glaring eyes, but it seemed to him that Laurent’s resentment was no longer tied to him, personally. It was annoyance at this new lack of resentment, when hating Damianos had been easy, and had come so naturally. Or, so Damianos told himself. 

“We should say something to each other, don’t you think?” Damianos asked after they had descended two flights of stairs and traversed a corridor in silence. His friendly smile and casual tone seemed to indicate that he was entirely unprepared for the possibility of a harsh retort. 

“Why? So you can prove to the world that you can walk and talk at the same time. Don’t trouble yourself, Damianos. Those who matter to you know what you are capable of – or not capable of, and they seem to love you, anyway.”

Damianos frowned a little, not at Laurent’s petty insult, but at the regret that was beginning to cast a shadow over Laurent’s face. Just as Laurent seemed to be teetering on the brink of an apology, Damianos spoke. “I have been known to walk into the occasional wall or column, but usually only when drunk or distracted by a pretty face.” 

When Laurent looked up at Damianos, he found him grinning. Laurent made a show of his concerted effort not to roll his eyes, which amused Damianos even more. There was a faint echo of a groan escaping Nikandros in the background. 

The mood immediately shifted when they entered the banquet. They were immediately struck by a scene that stood in glaring contrast to what Damianos had encountered the evening before. It was the thick scent in the air that struck Damianos first, of pungent, floral, dizzying perfume, followed by a cacophony glittering silver and gold, adorning painted, silk strewn and almost naked bodies. 

“What is this?” Damianos asked as he surveyed the room, meeting the painted eyes that glared at him mockingly. Something of a laugh escaped Laurent, but Nikandros was the one who answered. 

“The Veretian pets have come out to play.” 

“Why?” Damianos asked, disconcerted. “So few of them attended the banquet last night.” 

“Our courtiers had been advised against offending your delicate Akielon sensibilities,” Laurent said, seeming less amused. “But then you brought a bastard to dine with our King. Hardly diplomatic of you. And so, here we are.” Laurent left him and walked confidently up to the raised platform, resting his hand briefly on Auguste’s shoulder before seating himself beside him. 

Laurent’s guard wandered off to join his men, and Nikandros and Damianos were left standing alone. “What?” Nikandros asked, almost mockingly. “The famed pets are not pleasing to you? I do believe there are at least one or two that catch the eye.” 

“And at least one or two that are so young I can barely look at them,” Damianos said mournfully. “They are children.” 

“Yes,” Nikandros agreed. “But then, does it surprise you to know the Veretians are perverse? I’m sure you have heard that the King and his brother are fuc…” 

“I’ve heard,” Damianos said, shaking his head as if he could brush of the thought. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

Theomedes was displeased, though it was unclear whether his displeasure was directed at Damianos or the spectacle that surrounded them or both. Certainly, there was an air of discomfort aroused by the sight of the painted and bejewelled youths who were now given a place at the table, drawing attention to themselves with their glittering adornments and exposed flesh and making a show of playing with their leering masters and mistresses. 

Discomfort became disgust as Damianos’ eyes befell the child seated beside the King’s Uncle. His mind searched for some other explanation for the boy’s presence, but if the jewels in his hair and the sapphires hanging from his ears did not make it clear enough, the possessive gaze of the King’s Uncle most certainly did. 

“We would be all too pleased to offer you a companion of your own,” he said to Damianos, entirely mistaking the cause of Damianos’ gaze on the boy, “but we were informed that you brought one of your own. One renowned for his charm and beauty.” The child scoffed, but this was ignored, and the Uncle went on. “However, I do not see him, here…” He made a show of looking around, as though Erasmus might suddenly appear from a hiding place behind a chair or beneath the table. As he spoke, Damianos began to visualise himself striking him hard – a blow, directly across his face. 

“Damianos keeps the slave close,” Kastor said, his voice thick with envy disguised as amusement. “Fears he might be stolen out from beneath him.” 

As Kastor laughed, Damianos wished for nothing more than to strike him, too. 

“Do you keep him chained up?” Damianos’ eyes quickly turned to Laurent. All eyes did. Damianos sensed his father shifting in his seat with discomfort. “I hear that’s what you do to slaves in Akielos. Chain them up, drug them, till they are perfectly subservient to your will.” 

“Laurent.” Auguste’s voice seemed distant, and Laurent seemed not to hear it. 

“I wonder what it must feel like to see a man as your possession…” 

“Our bed slaves are the envy of most Akielons.” This time it was Theomedes who spoke, and Laurent turned to him, the derision in his eyes barely concealed. “They enjoy luxury and protection that even the noble men and women of Akielos can only aspire to.” 

“How fortunate for them,” Laurent replied, his smile laced with pointed sarcasm. 

“Forgive my nephew,” the Uncle said, uttering the words as though it pained him to do so. “He is young, and the young are often foolish when it comes to matters they do not understand…” 

“He is not so young,” Auguste said, bristling. “Thankfully, he has passed the most worrying age.” 

Something passed between Auguste and his uncle when they exchanged glances – something dark and dangerous. In the silent moments that followed, Damianos’ gaze fell upon Laurent, who suddenly appeared to be crushed beneath some terrible weight. There was real pain in his eyes, and just as the understanding of its cause threatened to dawn on Damianos, he forced it back, because it was too terrible to face here and now, in this moment. 

“I don’t think the Prince of Vere is foolish,” Damianos says, breaking the silence, and the tension. “I think he presents a valid view and gives us cause to reflect – all of us – on how we treat those who are weaker than ourselves.” 

Damianos felt his father’s disapproval and Kastor’s scorn at either side of him, but he regretted nothing – nothing but his failure to catch so much as a glance from Laurent for the rest of the evening. He wished that they could be alone – that they could truly have time to sit and speak and know each other, so that Laurent might see that he had misunderstood who he really was. 

And yet, when Damianos retired early from the banquet and returned to his chambers, he found that there was something else that weighed on him, gnawing at his conscience and undermining his blind acceptance of the customs that he had always known. 

He left his guards at the entry to his chambers and entered, barring the heavy bronze doors behind him. The room was quietly lit by a single oil lamp that sat on a small chest, illuminating the intricate crimson and gold embroidery of the blankets strewn across the bed, and the vision of Erasmus resting beneath them. 

Damianos knew that he was not asleep. There was a time when he would not have ventured beneath the covers in Damianos’ absence, and Damianos would have entered the room to find him bowing to the ground in obedience, but he had long since made clear to Erasmus that that was not what he wanted. Even before… before he had become a favourite, and dear to Damianos’ heart… Damianos had made it known that Erasmus’ comfort and pleasure were his own comfort and pleasure. Since then, they each had given of both to the other, in abundance.

“Exalted?” 

His voice was quiet and sleepy, and the flickering light made the golden highlights of his hair dance against the darkness. His presence, alone, was enough to slowly lift the weight that bore down on Damianos. He approached the bed. 

“No,” Damianos said quietly. 

Two of the sweetest hazel eyes Damianos had ever seen peered out at him from beneath a crown of dishevelled hair. Damianos’ eyes smiled back at them. 

“Master…” 

Damianos shook his head as he moved closer, reaching the foot of the bed. 

“Damianos…” 

Damianos frowned a little, touching the embroidered blankets distractedly, before grasping them, and pulling the down slowly, to bring into the light the exquisitely lithe and welcoming body they had deigned to conceal. 

Apart from the curl of his lips, and the hand that gracefully lifted and fell upon the bed above his head, Erasmus didn’t move. He knew he was perfect to behold, just as he was. The burning adoration in Damianos’ eyes conveyed as much. 

“Damen.” 

He spoke the word with agonising sweetness, and the sound of it, as much of the sight of it on those perfectly alluring lips, caused a corresponding twinge of pleasure deep with Damianos’ chest. 

Damianos sank down onto the end of the bed, and sprawled on his side, such that his eyes and his lips were level with Erasmus’ arousal as it came to life. He took Erasmus’ hand from where it rested on the sheets and kissed the back of his fingers, one by one, before guiding it to Erasmus’ body. 

“Say it again.” 

Gentle tremors shook Erasmus’ body as he began to pleasure himself beneath the heavy gaze of Damianos, and he whispered “Damen” reverently, followed by the softest and most pleasing little moan, as Damianos’ hand clasped his ankle and slowly traversed upward, until his fingertips were caressing and sinking into the inside of his thigh. 

“Again.” 

The word was spoken like a prayer on Erasmus’ lips, and then whimpered feverishly as Damianos’ hand shifted, his fingertips gently pressing into the slick and oiled warmth that had been made ready for him. He inched deeper, listening for the sound of pleasure on Erasmus’ cries and feeling it in the primal writhing of his body. “You’re lovely,” Damianos said, and it was the last that he said, before pulling away Erasmus’ hand and taking him deep into his mouth. 

Poor Erasmus was undone almost before it had even begun. As Damianos worked him from without and within, his careful, practiced, elegant grace descended into a chaos of cries and violent thrusts, with Damianos’ strong hands holding his body down firmly until he had swallowed and savoured the very last of Erasmus’ pleasure.

Damianos licked the burgeoning drop on the very tip, enjoying, as always, the way it made Erasmus shudder, and then kissed him softly on the inside of each of his thighs, and on the flat of his belly, and climbing over him, on the centre of his chest, and the underside of his chin. He pressed his hand over Erasmus’, holding it down against the bed, their fingers entwining. 

Erasmus moved his lips to speak, but they faltered, so he spoke with his legs, which wrapped around Damianos and drew him closer. They looked into each other, their gazes seemingly fused. And so it was that Erasmus saw it clearly when a cloud cast a dark shadow over Damianos’ eyes. 

“Damen,” he whispered, such a contrast to how he had been feverishly moaning the name seconds earlier, but his concern no less sweet to Damianos’ ears. “What is it?” 

Whether it was the poignance of being called by his childhood name, a treasured remnant of his true self, or the simple fact of Erasmus’ unfailing tenderness, the truth was drawn out of him. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. 

Erasmus’ brow furrowed. “You’re not.” 

Damianos shook his head. “I don’t… I don’t want to have ever hurt you.” 

Erasmus frowned deeply. In the silence that followed his lips began to quiver, and his eyes were now brimming with tears. “Forgive me if somehow I have made you think that…” 

“No, it’s nothing you have said or done wrong,” Damianos said quickly. “There is nothing to forgive. It is only that… I want you to know that if it was freedom you wanted, I would give it to you.” 

Erasmus’ lips stiffened, in a way that Damianos had not seen before. His eyes narrowed. He pulled his hands free and pressed them at each side of Damianos’ face and said more severely than he had ever spoken to Damianos or possibly anyone before, “Do it then. Set me free…” 

The words had burst out of Erasmus in a way that Damianos had not seen before, nor expected, and he faltered in his response. “Erasmus, I… I didn’t mean to suggest…” 

“Do it! Say the words, ‘Erasmus, I set you free…” 

Damianos gazed at him in astonishment. 

“Say it!” This time he yelled, his voice echoing against the walls of the room. 

“I set you free,” Damianos complied, more out of shock than deliberate intent. 

Erasmus lurched forward and fiercely kissed Damianos’ lips, holding himself there till they were both breathless. When he pulled back, there were tears hanging on his lashes. 

“I choose you,” he gasped. “I choose to be yours. I want to be yours. I love you. And even though you cannot love me back, you are kind to me. You are my friend. Though it is treason to say it while your Exalted father still lives, I confess that in my heart of hearts, you are my King.” 

Whatever had just happened was yet to fully register in Damianos’ mind, but the desperation on Erasmus’ face was enough to make him nod in acceptance. He lifted his fingertip to Erasmus’ cheek and gently lifted a tear that left a trail along his porcelain skin. 

“Erasmus,” he said softly, his eyes opening slightly wider. “Did I just… did I just make you angry?” 

The flush spread across Erasmus’ face like a crimson shadow. 

“Forgive me, I…” 

“No, I liked it!” Damianos said, the corner of his lips lifting into a crooked grin. “Do you think I could make you angry again…” 

Erasmus sighed, looking both mortified and slightly annoyed. And so Damianos leaned in and hungrily kissed the annoyance and mortification from his lips. And then he kissed deeper, resting himself over the body that once again wrapped itself around him. Damianos succumbed to it, giving into the press of Erasmus’ limbs drawing him in, relishing in the press of Erasmus’ body enveloping him. 

The following morning, when Nikandros entered to collect Damianos for a bout in the training hall, he found his friend in a particularly good mood. He was speaking animatedly with Erasmus about something or other. When Erasmus moved to prostrate himself before Nikandros, Damianos took him by the elbow and lifted him back up again, so they could continue their conversation. Nikandros raised an eyebrow curiously at yet another one of Damianos’ eccentricities but wasn’t particularly perturbed by it. 

Before leaving, Damianos lifted Erasmus’ face by his chin, and pressed a kiss on the tip of his nose and then leaned in and whispered something in his ear, beyond Nikandros’ hearing. 

Whatever it was, it caused Erasmus’ cheeks to flush, and the flicker of some secret knowledge in his eyes. “It honours this slave to please you, Exalted,” he whispered with his typical, modest charm. 

For reasons that were clearly beyond Nikandros’ understanding, hearing those words caused Damianos’ eyes to light up, and as soon as they left the chambers, Damianos shook his head and began to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My immense gratitude goes out to Spiritheart for her tremendously helpful comments and feedback on this chapter. 
> 
> There has been a slow build up but there will be a series of dramatic turns, beginning with the next chapter, that will move the plot forward at a faster pace. 
> 
> In the meantime - thank you for reading and for your comments & kudos!


	9. The Training Hall

The training hall, Damianos was pleased to discover, was the one corner of the palace in Arles in which he felt something akin to being at home. He entered and, in those first few moments before his presence was noticed, surveyed the interaction between the Akielon and Veretian soldiers, which displayed something of a camaraderie that was absent in every other context in which they had been brought together.

The differences between them were still very much apparent. Even dressed down to their silk shirts and trousers, Damianos’ hosts seemed to him to be strapped in and restrained by their clothing – a complement to the elaborate and dance-like style of sword fighting in which they were training. In contrast, there were at least a dozen Akielons stripped down to nothing and wrestling in the dirt. And yet, they watched each other with interest, engaged, mingled, encouraged and, where the language barrier was not insurmountable, seemed to be enjoying robust discussions.

Damianos turned and smiled at Nikandros.

“You’re smiling in anticipation of slamming us all into the dust,” he said, with an air of resignation.

Damianos’ smile spread wider. “Yes. It has been too long and I’m looking forward to it. But, also, I am glad that we are here. Perhaps we will learn something from our Veretian counterparts.”

“I doubt it,” Nikandros said, beginning to undress, “unless you want to learn to lie, cheat, steal, devise sinister plots and tie yourself up into a ridiculous web of unnecessary laces.”

“You never know, those things might be useful,” Damianos said with a shrug, pulling off his chiton and casting aside. He and Nikandros proceeded to pour oil from a flask into their hands, and to rub it over their bodies. By this time, Damianos’ presence had been widely noticed. He briefly acknowledged the younger soldiers who stopped what they were doing and drew their heels together, then waved a hand at them dismissively. This, to him, was treasured time, in which he might be seen as one of them, and not singled out as their future King. 

One of them or not, his strength and skills in training were superior. As his men had come to expect, even the fiercest among them could not best him in strength or technique. Nikandros put up a worthy fight and a young soldier, Pallas, almost threw Damianos off balance once or twice, causing a murmur to rise across the growing crowd of spectators. But each encounter ended in much the same way, until it seemed their best and only chance was to wait for Damianos to tire himself out to the point of losing a bout or sending them on their way.

It was during his third encounter with Pallas that a silence befell the training hall. Damianos was too distracted to think much of it, until Pallas met the sawdust on his back with a loud thud, sparing him a moment to look around him. He became aware of Auguste’s presence, at the fore of where the soldiers had gathered to watch, but his eyes were drawn to Laurent’s. He smiled, feeling something greater than pleasure – something more like relief, at Laurent looking back at him, taking his measure with wide eyes and not turning away as he had done the night before. He knew he ought to speak, but Laurent’s expression was not expectant, and so he chose, instead, to savour the moment and not to risk disturbing the connection between them.

But then, Auguste cleared his throat loudly, reminding Damianos that he was also standing there, as were many others, and that this was not, as it had felt to him, a private moment between him and Laurent. His smile faltered, and he straightened himself, placed his hand on his chest and offered Auguste a small bow.

“Exalted.”

“Prince Damianos,” Auguste replied, hiding something behind his stiff lips and formal tone. “This is more excitement than our humble training hall has seen in quite some time.”

“Thank you for extending your hospitality to me and to my men.”

“Thank you to you and your men for the entertainment.”

Damianos felt Nikandros bristle. He, too, felt the sting. Auguste’s flat expression made his true intention undiscernible, leaving Damianos to wonder whether the insult was innocent or deliberate.

“Do you train with a sword, or is dirt your only weapon of choice?”

There was absolute silence. The slight tremor in Auguste’s tone was enough to convey that this was a challenge, and that it meant more to him than a bout of sword fighting in the training hall. No. They were no longer in the training hall, in Auguste’s mind or in Damianos’. 

What was it that Auguste had said to him? “ _There is not a day that goes by that I don’t dream about killing you._ ”

Damianos knew, now, what Auguste wanted. He did not share the desire to know which of them would have triumphed had they fought at Marlas simply because both outcomes were unpalatable to him – but to Auguste it meant something more. It would mean an understanding of what was traded for his father’s life. Damianos appreciated that and respected it. There would be no killing, not today, but perhaps Auguste would have the answers that he needed. 

“Bring me my sword.”

Damianos watched the blood drain from Laurent’s face. He watched Laurent grip Auguste’s wrist, squeezing it so tight that a larger, stronger man might have injured it. “No,” he breathed under his breath, drawing Auguste’s eyes to his. Auguste regarded him, not with the authority of a King, but with the loving reassurance of an older brother.

“Have a little faith in me, Laurent” he said, tussling his younger brother’s hair with an air of deliberate casualness. “We are only sparing.” Laurent endured it, listlessly. His eyes were wide and shimmering. He was utterly disarmed, and with his mask removed, his entire being radiated with adoration for Auguste.

He whispered, “Be careful”.

The straight sword brought to Damen was longer and heavier than any of those which hung on the walls of the training hall. He was dressed, now, and while he had done his best to clean off the oil from his body and his hands, he felt the hilt of the sword threatening to slip through his fingers. He wiped his hands, one by one, on his chiton, clasping the hilt again and waiving it through the air, until he was accustomed to the weight of it, and the blade had come to feel as though it was an extension of himself.

Auguste watched him, holding his sword by his side with its point in the sawdust, and leaning his arm on it. Unlike Damianos, who was still flushed and sweating from his earlier exertions, Auguste was a perfect picture of calm and elegance. He looked more ready to pose for a portrait than to challenge his father’s killer in a sword fight. But behind his eyes, Damianos saw something more – an intensity belied by his outward calm. It caused Damianos heart to race in a way that an outward show of bluster and bravado never could.

Damianos signalled his readiness, and they raised their swords.

The sound of clashing steel burst through the silence, and Damianos immediately felt the full force of a strength he never expected Auguste to possess. Speed and agility he _had_ expected, and they were dealt out with seeming effortlessness, and cleverness, in sequences of three and four that forced Damianos to counter rapidly as he stumbled backwards, almost losing his balance.

Damianos fought back with brute strength, the mounting force of each counter-attack taking the momentum out of Auguste’s offensive. He regained some ground, but far from seizing control, was forced to improvise, parrying desperately while Auguste seemed to anticipate the precise timing and movement of every cut and thrust.

The clash of their swords reached a crescendo, and their exchange of blows became frenzied. Damianos blinked his eyes which had begun to blur with the sting of sweat. Instinct took over, countering the blows that were too fast and varied for Damianos’ mind to consciously register. He was outmatched, and it was only a matter of time before Auguste found an opening. But before that could happen, the mingled sweat and oil of his palms caused his sword to succumb to Auguste’s dealing of a massive blow. It flew from his hands and hit the ground with a loud thrum, sending up a cloud of sawdust in its wake.

Auguste stared at him. Damianos did not move. None of the soldiers surrounding him dared speak or make a sound. There was a quiver of Auguste’s lips, betraying the intensity of his thoughts as he sought to determine what should happen next. No… what would have happened next, if they were facing each other in Marlas.

“Pick up your sword,” he said.

Damianos’ eyes narrowed. “You have bested me.”

“No,” Auguste said. “I have disarmed you. And that is not entirely the same thing.” He bridled with impatience, and now raised his voice. “Pick up your sword.”

In the few moments it took Damianos to reach for his sword and lift it from the ground, he calculated that if he allowed Auguste to mount an attack that was anything like the last one, he would soon be eating sawdust. His only hope of succeeding was to attack first, with all that he had. It was impossible to regain control from Auguste, so he would not cede it in the first place.

This time, Damianos lunged. Though Auguste saw it coming, and though he dodged, the force of Damianos sword meeting his parry forced him to stagger. Unperturbed, Auguste countered, but the blow was constrained by Damianos’ enormous form bearing down on him, and his movements became rough and reactionary. He pivoted, adapting his approach from one of unrestrained aggression to one of strategy, dancing around Damianos’ blows and then luring him with a feint attack. But Damianos anticipated it, and seeing an opening, he struck, striking a blow that sent Auguste reeling to the ground. Damianos stood over him, the tip of his sword pressing up against Auguste’s chest, where the fatal blow would be struck.

They looked at each other. There was nothing triumphant about Damianos’ gaze. And in Auguste’s expression, there was more relief than resentment. If this was, indeed, how it would have been, he had in his heart less cause for regret.

Damianos dropped his sword to the ground and held out his hand. August reached for it, and they clasped wrists. Damianos pulled him to his feet.

“Truly,” Damianos said, loud enough for those surrounding them to hear, “you are the best swordfighter I have ever known and the worthiest adversary”.

Auguste nodded his head, breathless now, as though he had waited for an opportune moment to permit the signs of his exhertion to show. “I’m glad you think so.” He smiled, and then to Damianos’ surprise, and the surprise of every man in the room, Akielon and Veretian alike, Auguste embraced him, and then slapped him forcefully on his shoulder. “Because I think we should do this again tomorrow!”

Finally, the voices of the soldiers rose again, and inspired by the mastery of what they just witnessed, they took to sparring with each other. The moment Auguste turned away from him, Damianos immediately searched for Laurent, and found him leaning against the wall, his arms wrapped around himself, his mind clearly churning his thoughts at full capacity. He became more guarded as Damianos approached, but he did not retreat.

“Auguste is a better sword fighter than you,” he said, simply.

Damianos conceded with a nod. “True.” _I still beat him_ , he thought to himself, but did not say aloud. “It is exhilarating, to fight your brother. I am glad to have a reason to train to be better, and to have someone to learn from. It has been so long. I don’t suppose I can take Auguste back to Ios with me?”

Laurent simply arched his eyebrows.

“I suppose not,” Damianos said with a chuckle.

“He wants to fight you again tomorrow,” Laurent said, less sharply. “Are the two of you going to make a habit of this?”

“Would that bother you?” Damianos, asked.

Laurent shrugged a shoulder. “Auguste and I usually practice together in the mornings.”

“I see,” Damianos said, soberly. “That is important and not something I want to take away from you. Why don’t the three of us train together?”

Laurent stared at him, incredulously.

“We might learn something from each other,” he offered, when it seemed that Laurent would not respond.”

“Was fighting Auguste too challenging? You would rather take the easier course and humiliate me?”

“I promise you, Laurent, humiliating you is the furthest thing from my mind. I think you know that,” Damianos continued, his voice becoming lower. "You are clever enough to know it." 

Laurent gazed up at him, keenly, his eyes betraying the flicker of something deep within him, something softer and sweeter than Damianos had ever seen in him before. A tenderness that Damianos had feared only existed in his own, private imaginings of how Laurent might be. When had a simple look been enough to make Damianos' heart thunder furiously?

“Laurent!”

Auguste’s voice drew Laurent’s attention away, and only then did Damianos realise how close they had been standing. Laurent lifted himself up off the wall. He walked away wordlessly, causing a dull ache in Damianos’ chest. But then he paused, and turned back to face Damianos, saying with practiced nonchalance, “Tomorrow morning, then.”

Without waiting for a response, he left the training hall at his brother’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt thanks go to Spiritheart for all the encouragement, the helpful suggestions and for generally being the perfect antidote to my impostor syndrome. Thank you! x


	10. Secrets and Lies

“Leave the boy alone. He’s had enough for one day!”

Nikandros’ voice was barely heard by Damianos over the incessant clanking of steel on steel. He continued to spar with Laurent, carefully countering every strike and throwing in a feint or a charge, here or there, to keep challenging him. He didn’t want to stop. He revelled in Laurent’s swordsmanship – the complexity and cleverness of it – so much like an extension of the young man, himself. Crossing swords with him was like having a conversation that flowed freely, in which Laurent revealed something of his true self, and Damianos would never tire of it.

But he could see that Laurent was breathless and sweating, his brow and cheeks flushed red. And so he let down his guard enough to give Laurent an opening, and when Laurent lunged forward and took it, slicing upwards until his blade came to rest on Damianos’ side, Damianos dropped his weapon to the ground and raised his hands, conceding defeat.

“You let me win,” Laurent said gasping for air with a look of tremendous annoyance. He threw down his sword and stumbled over to the bench by the wall where Nikandros was reclining with his hands behind his head and his feet propped up on a wooden stool. Laurent sat down beside him a little less gracefully than usual, clearly trying not to look as exhausted as he truly was. The three of them were alone in the training hall, the others having left some ago. Soon, Damianos tried his best to forget, they would have to follow.

“I let you practice how to close in on your opponent. There’s nothing wrong with that. Are you all right?”

Laurent nodded, and then rested back against the wall. Strands of golden hair had fallen over his eyes, and Damianos reasoned that his arms must be too sore for him to go to the effort of brushing them back. He would have been happy to do it for him, and to help rub the ache from his back and shoulders, if only Nikandros wasn’t here… He sighed and gritted his teeth. There wasn’t enough room on that bench for the three of them.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the summit, Nikandros?”

“Shouldn’t _you_ be getting ready for the summit, Prince Damianos?” His tone was as pointed as his judgmental gaze. “We wouldn’t want the Crown Prince of Akielos to be late three days in a row. What would that look like?”

Damianos didn’t particularly care what it would look like, but he knew that response would not be palatable in his present company.

And what Nikandros said was true. This was the third morning he had trained with Auguste and Laurent and the third morning that he had dragged it out for longer than he should have. With Auguste it had been the thrill of the challenge, the two of them so evenly matched and now able to relish their bouts without the dark intensity of their first encounter. But the moment Auguste left – which had been at a respectable time, as a King ought to give some thought and preparation to diplomatic talks – Damianos lost sight of everything and everyone in the room but Laurent, and the fact of Laurent’s attention being placed solely on him, and of their bodies heaving, exerting, engaging, moving in a way that, to Damianos, had all the romance and intimacy of dancing – only, with the added embellishment of clashing swords, scrapes, bruises and other minor injuries.

Having this to look forward to had made the long days of overwrought diplomacy bearable to Damianos. But it had made the nights long and restless, filled with little sleep and endless hours measuring how long it would be until the sun rose and they could do this again. He began to feel the same agitation now that he felt in those moonlit hours, at the thought of their time together coming to an end, and he said to Laurent, who was peering at him through those lowered, golden lashes, which made Damianos just want to reach for him and… “Are you too tired to go on?”

Laurent blinked at him incredulously, as if to say, _Isn’t it obvious?_ But whether it was pride or (as Damianos hoped) his own desire for this not to be over yet, Laurent languidly lifted himself up off the bench and raised his sword.

“Once more.”

Damianos held back, and let Laurent take the offensive. Though Laurent’s body was tired, his mind was not, and he deftly applied sequences and movements in the Akielon style of fighting that both pleased Damianos and kept him on guard. “That is very good!” Damianos said, just as Laurent met his parry with a swift, driving riposte. It was enough to drive Damianos a step or two backwards – at which point he tripped over something, and went crashing to the ground with all the terrifying force of a falling oak tree.

He had tripped over the wooden (and now, demolished) footstool that Nikandros must have kicked out into his path with an unspoken invitation for Laurent to drive him towards it. This registered in Damianos’ mind, but only vaguely. The greater focus of his attention was the vision of Laurent standing over him, triumphantly, his sword thrust towards Damianos belly. And not merely that, but… he was laughing. _Laughing_. Actual laughter that shook his body and made his eyes flicker and smile. The flush of exertion was mingled with this breathless laughter, which was now becoming a cackle, and Damianos just stared in wonderment, thinking it the most beautiful sight that he had ever seen.

“Come on,” Nikandros said, fully aware, from the look on Damianos’ face, of how spectacularly his plan had backfired. “We need to get to…”

Whatever he was about to say was cut short by a commotion at the entry way to the hall. Damianos had his back to it, and it seemed to him a curious sound of the flurry of rapid and numerous padding footsteps. He sat up and turned to find a hound lunging towards him, and another coming from behind and racing towards Laurent, who dropped to his knees and began to pet him between his ears, making nonsensical small talk as a boy might do with a creature that is loved and familiar to him. 

Damianos and the hound regarded each other momentarily, before the hound broke and licked Damianos mouth and across his cheek. Damianos scrunched up his nose, and wiped off the wetness with the back of his hand, before breaking into a crooked smile and scratching his new friend beneath his chin.

“Stop ruining my dogs.” Auguste whistled at the entry to the hall, and the beasts scurried back to him, frolicking at his feet for a moment before sitting at either side of him like soldiers at attention. “Laurent, you servants are waiting to attend to you. I told you, you were not to be late again!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, now risen to his feet. He glanced down at Damianos quickly, with a flicker of a secret smile, before walking over to Auguste. “I lost track of time.”

“And Damianos,” Auguste continued, still in the tone of a reproachful older brother, “It is not for me to tell the Prince of Akielos to attend to his duties – but go attend to your duties!”

“Yes, Exalted,” Damianos called back with a grin.

Damianos watched them both leave from where he was seated on the ground. When they had fully disappeared, he laid back onto the sawdust and closed his eyes, recalling the beauty of Laurent's laughter without any of the mockery.

“Damen,” Nikandros said. Damianos smiled inwardly, as this meant they were speaking as friends.

“Yes.”

“Surely you don’t need me to tell you how much trouble you are in right now. And I’m not talking about being late for the summit.”

“No,” Damianos said after a pause. “I don’t need you to tell me. I am very much aware.”

“Then be on your guard. You might recall that your last dangerous infatuation ended badly.”

But not even the mention of Jokaste was enough to sour Damianos’ mood. It was a good day. The summit went well and his contributions were valued by his father, with whom he shared very similar philosophies when it came to diplomacy and strategic alliances, and were also met favourably by Auguste and his council. But more than that, in moments of tedium or angst, he found immediate and overwhelming comfort in the memory of Laurent standing over him, his face transformed by his unbridled laughter, and the way it lit up his eyes and made his lips seem all the more enticing…

\---

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Damianos?" 

He looked over at Kastor who, he had quite forgotten, was seated beside him at the feast that evening. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you smiling like a dumb animal?”

Damianos stared at him for a moment, before answering. “Speak to me like that again, and I will floor you. I’ve done it once, brother. Don’t make me do it again.”

And that was that.

Kastor left the table early and their father had not joined them at all, citing a need to rest after the talks. The King’s uncle was also notably absent. Damianos perceived the dissatisfaction with this that was etched on Auguste’s face. The appearance of it was bad for him, even if there was nothing sinister about the three of them being absent at the same time. But at the very least, it allowed them more freedom to talk and enjoy this time together. Nikandros was invited to the table to join them. Soon they were talking, and exchanging stories, like soldiers round a campfire. For a moment, Damianos wished that was what they were, with all the freedom to be themselves that such a life would entail.

“You should try that,” Laurent said, as a servant brought a platter to Damianos’ side and offered to serve him.

Damianos groaned, pressing his hand to his stomach. “I can’t. I’m full of cheese, butter and venison. Veretian food is too rich. I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered serving a fig or a pomegranate?”

“But this is a speciality,” Laurent said, with a smile that surprised Damianos with its charm. “I would hate for you to go back to Ios without having sampled it.

Damianos did not want to think about going back to Ios at this particular moment and, besides, with that smile, he was quite unable to deny Laurent any reasonable request that was made of him. So, he allowed the servant to add the food to his plate. Nikandros shook his head at the servant when the food was offered to him, and looked back at Damianos with interest. 

Damianos skewered one of the little pieces of meat and swirled it round in the sauce before putting it in his mouth, chewing reticently as he observed the unfamiliar texture.

“What do you think?” Laurent asked. That smile again, Damianos thought, distracting himself from the unfamiliarity of whatever it was that was rolling around in his mouth.

“The garlic is strong,” Damianos said. “What is it?”

Laurent smiled even wider. “Snails.”

Damianos gasped and, in doing so, inhaled the snail, causing him to choke, cough and sputter. Auguste clasped his shoulder and handed him his cup. Rather than spitting out the snail, which would have better accorded with every instinct Damianos possessed, the best he could do was try to wash it down with gulps of wine. Meanwhile, Nikandros’ entire body was convulsing with laughter, and when Damianos looked across the table through his watering and bloodshot eyes, still coughing, he found Laurent with his hand held over his mouth, failing entirely to conceal his crimson flush, squinting eyes and the tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks.

As for Auguste, he was smiling too, but not at Damianos. He was smiling at Laurent. His look was enough to convey that if he had ever seen Laurent laugh like that before, it had not been for a very long time.

“I hate you both,” Damianos said when he could finally speak, his voice still croaking and hoarse. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Don’t blame us,” Nikandros said through his chortling. “You’re an easy target, Damen.”

“Damen?” Laurent asked, tilting his head. 

“A term of endearment,” Nikandros explained, “that we used more often back when he was actually endearing.”

“Damen sounds like a good name for a dog,” Laurent said, with a little scoff.

“Thank you, Laurent!” Damianos said, with a grin. “Having seen your affection for Auguste’s hounds this morning, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Laurent smiled back at him and – in a gesture that Damianos chose to believe was deliberate and calculated, and not a mere accident, nudged his sandaled foot with his leather boot, beneath the table.

\--

“It’s too late to train, now” Nikandros said emphatically, at the end of the evening, as they stepped out of the banquet hall, together. “Go to bed! You can resume your embarrassing flirtation with Laurent in the morning.”

“Who said anything about training now?” Damianos asked, his interest piqued. 

Nikandros looked at him for a moment, expressionless, and then said very slowly and deliberately, “… No one.”

“Is Laurent going back to the training hall?”

“No.”

“You heard him say he was, didn’t you!” Damianos said, rather pleased that after all these years, Nikandros was still utterly incapable of keeping anything from him.

“Well… yes, and I assumed you were meeting him there. But he must want to train alone. In which case, leave him be, Damianos!”

“Yes, of course, I will,” Damianos said.

Nikandros scowled. Damianos sighed. Apparently, he was still not capable of keeping anything from Nikandros, either. 

“I’m just going to wish him good night.” 

“I’ll come with you.”

“You absolutely will not,” Damianos said, forcefully.

“Damianos,” Nikandros sighed with exasperation, “you more than half drunk, in need of rest, and who knows what effect eating snails has on a man's body. And I promised your father I would…”

“I need to see him, Nikos. Alone.” Damianos’ voice had dropped now and was quiet. It was clear that he was serious. "There is something about him. I don't know what it is, but I..." 

" _I_ know what it is," Nikandros exclaimed. "Would you like me to draw you a picture? Blonde hair, blue eyes, sharp tongue... we've been through this before, only this one knows how to wield a sword and is the _fucking Prince of Vere_!" 

“No, Nikos, you're wrong, it's not any of that..." 

Nikandros raised an eyebrow, causing Damianos to pause, briefly. 

"Well, yes, perhaps it is, but there is something more. I feel drawn to him in a way that cannot rationally be explained, even to myself. I _like_ him. And the thought of leaving Arles in a matter of days, without telling him so, is not one that I can entertain. If that is a mistake, it is mine to make. I appreciate your dedication to me and my father, but don’t try to stop me.”

For all their familiarity, Nikandros knew when he was close to overstepping Damianos’ boundaries. He nodded his head.

“Be on guard, my friend, and I don’t just mean against assassins lurking in the shadows. Laurent may not be as physically strong as you, but he is ten times as devious. He will wrap you around his finger if you let him.”

“I’ll be careful,” Damianos said, even if being wrapped around Laurent’s finger did not sound as bad to him as it ought to.

As he made his way to the training hall, oblivious to the few soldiers, noblemen, pets and servants that he passed, he toyed with what he might say when he encountered Laurent. Every iteration of “hello” that passed through his mind ended in the same way – with Laurent rolling his eyes, and complaining at Damianos' intrusion. And yet, if there was so much of a glimmer of desire in Laurent’s eyes for Damianos to stay, and for them to have time together, alone, his enthusiasm would not be dampened.

Damianos saw from a distance that there was torchlight in the training hall. He approached the entry and stepped inside, and was struck immediately by the realisation that Laurent was not alone. Auguste was with him, and they were embracing. There was, on the ground beside them, a wooden box, with an ornately crafted sword inside it. A gift, Damianos gathered. He felt the sudden and overwhelming sense of his intrusion on their private moment and took a step back.

“Damianos,” Laurent said, quickly stepping away from Auguste with his surprise clearly written on his face. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I had thought… nevermind, forgive me for interrupting… whatever it is that I have interrupted.”

Damianos turned and left, taking swift and deliberate steps and trying to make sense of what he had just seen. Surely, it was simply the case that Auguste had given Laurent a gift and they had shared a brotherly embrace. He had embraced his own younger brother countless times. There was no reason to make anything more of it than that. His father’s beliefs about them were unfounded, this was not a reason to believe that the rumours were true…

Lost in these thoughts, he had covered some distance before he heard Laurent’s voice calling out from behind him.

“Damianos! Stop walking.”

He turned, and watched Laurent’s swift approach. 

Laurent took a moment to catch his breath, before speaking again. “What is the matter with you!” he cried. 

Damianos shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Why did you look at us like that? Like you had discovered us doing something wrong!”

“I didn’t…”

“Auguste was pleased with how I’ve progressed with my sword fighting and so he gave me one of my father’s best swords!”

“I see,” Damianos said, awkwardly, too lost in this unexpected turn of events to be able to fully compose himself or find the right words to say. 

Laurent eyed him intently, and then said, with a quiver in his voice, “The rumours you may have heard about us aren’t true.”

Damianos scratched the side of his head, frowning. “I never said they were.” 

“Then you have heard them!”

Damianos sighed.

“And you believed them?” The answer was clearly important to Laurent. This made Damianos' mind scatter all the more. 

“I didn’t say that I believed anything! Laurent, whatever you and your brother do together… My opinion of it doesn’t matter!”

It had come out without much thought, and even before seeing the look of utter disdain on Laurent’s face, Damianos knew it was the wrong thing to say. “I didn’t mean it like…” he began to say, but Laurent stepped forward, speaking to him with the same tone and look of disgust that had greeted Damianos when they had first met.

“Your opinion doesn’t matter. It will _never_ matter. Not to me and not to Auguste. But know this, Damianos, if you take it upon your stupid and idiotic self to spread lies about my brother, I will destroy you. I will _destroy_ you. Do you understand that?”

Even as the words came out, each one more vicious than the last, it was not what Laurent said that wounded Damianos, so much as the hurt he saw in Laurent's eyes.

“I won’t say anything,” he said. “But Laurent…” 

Before he could say any more, Laurent had turned away from him, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much to Spiritheart for being an excellent beta - your insights and suggestions are always so very helpful!


	11. The Library

Laurent was not at the training hall in the morning. Neither was Auguste. Damianos waited for a while, watching Nikandros exerting himself with the other men, but he could not stomach being there for long. 

Nikandros had feared the worst from the moment Damianos’ had entered the hall with sleepless eyes and a sombre expression. It was clear that it took the sum of all his willpower to refrain from saying to Damianos, “I told you, I _told you_ not to follow him”. Damianos had given only the briefest explanation for what had happened the night before. “I did not find him alone.” It was true, albeit incomplete. That was the end of their conversation. 

After Damianos left the training hall, he returned to his rooms. With no talks scheduled until the afternoon, he thought, optimistically, he might sleep a while, having been denied the privilege the night before. He entered his chambers and found Erasmus laying on his stomach, across the bed, his head in a book and his feet languidly crossed at the ankles. When he looked up and saw Damianos, he started to rise, but Damianos waved his hand and said, “Stay as you are”. He crossed the room and took an ornately carved and impractically delicate wooden chair, dragging it near to the bed and seated himself in it, resting his weight at the risk of it snapping beneath him. 

He was frustrated. Frustrated by his need to know the truth about Auguste and Laurent, knowing he had no way of discovering it. And the more he thought about it, the more his thoughts raced around his mind in circles. One thing was clear, however – Laurent had no pet and neither did Auguste. And he had never seen either of them so much as look at anyone but each other with anything that could possibly be construed as affection. Their chasteness was incongruous, in a palace so replete with sensory extravagances. 

And yet, it still felt to him to be a betrayal of their friendship to assume the worst, without proof. Laurent’s outrage, the night before, had not appeared to be feigned. 

It was difficult to think so intensely without sleep or food in his stomach. He looked down at the table beside him, pondering the jug of wine and the bowl of fruit beside it. He narrowed his eyes on the latter. _Figs and pomegranates._ How had the servants known that was what he had asked for at the feast?

Servants knew everything, he supposed. Nothing goes on in a palace that they do not see, and once one of them knows, then the rest catch on...

His eyebrows perked up as he once again regarded Erasmus on the bed. 

“You don’t spend the entire day in here while I’m out, do you?” he asked. “I suppose you mingle a little with the Veretians?” 

Erasmus peered at him across the top of his book. “I like spending time in the room. Sometimes, I go exploring and mingle, if I find myself in need of conversation. “Why do you ask?” 

“I was curious,” Damianos said. But then, just as Erasmus tilted his head back down and returned to his reading, he was interrupted again. “Are the pets friendly?” 

_“Friendly?”_ Erasmus asked, querying whether that was really the word Damianos had intended to use. “That’s… that’s not how I would describe them,” he said, tactfully. “I prefer to speak with the servants. Some of them are nice.”

This time Erasmus didn’t start reading again, because it was perfectly obvious that Damianos was getting at something. 

“Do the servants ever talk about King Auguste? That is to say – have you ever noticed them sharing gossip about him and his… well, his...”

Erasmus blinked his eyes.

“His…” 

“Proclivities?” Erasmus offered. 

“Yes,” Damianos said, “his _proclivities_.” 

“Yes,” Erasmus said, sitting up on the bed and frowning deeply. “I think it’s sad.” Damianos’ heart sunk in his chest, as this seemed to confirm his fears. “They judge him so harshly,” Erasmus continued, “but is it really so bad? Sometimes we just can’t control what we are and who we want.” 

Damianos stared at Erasmus. “Then you find that sort of behaviour acceptable?” he asked, shifting in his chair with mounting discomfort. 

“Well… I am not one to judge. It is not to my taste, but it is certainly very common. In Akielos, it is practically the norm.” 

Damianos was shocked, and said brusquely, “I assure you it isn’t! Who does that sort of thing in Akielos?” 

Erasmus looked confused. “Well, you, for one, and your father, and Prince Alexios…” 

“Erasmus, what are you saying?” Damianos said, standing out of his chair. “Are you mad? Or am _I_ mad? Maybe Nikandros was right about the effect of eating snails on the body… I’m obviously losing my mind!” 

“I’m… I’m sorry…” Erasmus stuttered, staring up at Damianos in confusion. “Did I say something wrong? It is only that I am aware of you being intimate with women very often! I didn’t think you would consider it such a serious transgression on the part of King Auguste…” 

“Wait,” Damianos said, his voice dropping. “Did you say _women_?” 

“Yes,” Erasmus said, nodding. “Isn’t that what we were talking about, King Auguste’s proclivities? He likes to be with women. All the servants know about it. To the Veretians, that sort of thing is scandalous unless it is between a husband and wife! But, wait… what did you think I was talking about?” 

Damianos sighed, and closed his eyes, rubbing the centre of his forehead as he mumured to himself, “Laurent was right. I have been very stupid.” 

\-- 

He felt an urgent need to speak with Laurent, but didn’t know how or where to find him. He approached Radel, the overseer of the household, and was led by him to Laurent’s chambers, which adjoined Auguste’s, but they were empty. So, he informed the overseer that he would speak with Auguste, instead. 

Radel left him with the guard at the entrance to the King’s chamber. It was the same man who had walked with Damianos and Nikandros to the courtyard on their first morning in Arles, and had travelled with them and Auguste to the stables. Damianos wished he had bothered to remember his name as a hint of familiarity might have been useful. 

“I wish to see the King,” he said. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” the man said with rough courtesy. “But I’m afraid you will have to wait, as the King is presently indisposed.” 

“It can’t wait,” Damianos said. “The matter is pressing. I must see him _now_.” 

The guard did not visibly react, other than to scan his eyes up and down Damianos as if to confirm that there was no outward indication of the “pressing” nature of the matter. He then said, in the same even tone, “The King is presently indisposed, but if it would please Your Highness to wait...” 

“I need to see Auguste. Either you tell him I’m coming in, er… what is your name?” 

“Jord, your highness.” 

“Jord. Either you tell him I’m coming in, or I’m going to burst through those doors and interrupt whatever is keeping him _indisposed_ , which might result in some embarrassment for everyone concerned, if you don’t give him warning. 

“Your Highness,” _Jord_ said, slowly but very noticeably lifting hand to the hilt of his sword, “I cannot let you through. The King’s orders are that no one is to enter.”

“Oh. And what are you going to do? Cut me down? Slaughter the unarmed Crown Prince of Akielos? I think it’s unlikely.” 

Damianos pushed past him and made for the doors. “Your Highness!” the guard shouted, coming up behind him. But any attempt to forcibly restrain him was half hearted and in vain. He forced the doors open. 

And there he was, King Auguste, looking resplendent in his open and unlaced white linen shirt untucked from his trousers, his hair disheveled and his body sprawled out in a chair, with a pretty, young, dark-haired woman on his lap, in state of partial undress. 

She yelped, and slid off of him, drawing closed the front of her dress. She looked at Auguste and he at her. He rolled his eyes. “Go,” he said. And then, turning to Jord, who was still standing in the doorway, looking mortified at his failure, “You, too. We will discuss this later.” 

Jord disappeared and closed the doors behind him, but the woman refused and snapped back at him, “Not without my coin.” Her eyes darted from Auguste to Damianos and back to Auguste, who sighed and rolled his head back to rest against the back of the lounge. With a lazy hand, he pointed at the bureau. She raced over it, picked up the bag of coins and then darted back to the far corner of the room, behind a curtain. Damianos heard the sound of a hidden door opening and closing, and the echo of footsteps becoming more distant. And then he and Auguste were facing each other in the silence. 

“Well,” Auguste said finally. “That didn’t go the way I hoped it would. This is the second time you have barged in on a private moment in less than half a day. I trust there is a very good reason for it.” 

“I need to speak with Laurent. Can you tell me where to find him?” 

Auguste just looked at him, raising a single eyebrow. Clearly, this did not qualify as a _good reason_. 

“Auguste, I need to speak to him…” 

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “I heard that part. My hearing is not the problem, Damianos. Has the thought occurred to you that Laurent doesn’t want to speak to you and, more importantly, that your needing to speak to him is not my problem?” 

“Please,” Damianos said, approaching. “Tell me where to find him.” 

“Why?” Auguste asked, straightening his back and raising his voice. “He is my brother! Would you have me serve him to you on a platter?” 

“No.” Damianos shook his head. “It isn’t like that.” 

“Isn’t it?” Auguste rose up to his feet and stepped closer to Damianos. “I have seen the way you look at Laurent! Do you think I’m a fool? Do you think _he_ is a fool?” 

“No, I… I don’t think either of you are fools”, he said, emphatically. “Auguste… whatever you may see when I look at him… that’s not why I want to speak to him. I want to tell him that I’m sorry. Auguste, I think I hurt him, and that’s not what I wanted.” 

“You’re incapable of hurting Laurent,” Auguste said, his words echoing Laurent’s belittling, the night before. The words rang hollow to Damianos, now, as they did, then. 

“Do you really believe that’s true?” he asked quietly, but pleadingly. “If you do, tell me so now, Auguste, and I will stop trying to find him. But if there is a small chance that I can heal a wound that is causing your brother pain…” 

“You know nothing of my brother’s wounds, Damianos,” Auguste spat out with a bitterness that Damianos had never observed in him before, each word wrought with bitter emotion. “You don’t know what he has endured. And if you are incapable of hurting him, it’s because he has had to protect himself against far worse than the likes of you.” 

The words sent a shiver through Damianos. He didn’t fully understand their meaning, but he saw the pain in Auguste’s eyes as he uttered them. 

“All I want is to ask his forgiveness,” Damianos said in a final plea. “I swear to you, I will treat him with nothing less than the courtesy he deserves. Please. Tell me where to find him.” 

Auguste’s expression was unchanged, but somehow, to Damianos, he appeared to soften. The tension slowly dissipated. Auguste sighed, ran his fingers back through his hair with both hands and appeared to think for a moment, before finally acceding with a reluctant nod of his head. 

“I will tell you where to find him. But I promise you, Damianos, if you cause him pain, or mistreat him in any way, I will kill you. And I mean that quite literally.” 

\-- 

Damianos walked through the open courtyard and down a passage that wove through the stables and the servants’ quarters and led out onto a perfectly manicured field of grass. Not too far off into the distance, he saw the structure he was looking for. It was a cylindrical building that looked to be a couple of stories high, built of white sandstone and ornamented at the first level will elaborate corbel arches, and on the second, with intricately carved columns and stained glass windows, which rose up to support an iron balcony at the base of a magnificent dome. It was unlike any structure Damianos would ever come across in Akielos, and if he was not carrying himself with so urgent a sense of purpose, he might of stopped to admire it. 

The large, bronze door was ajar. He pushed it open slowly and it made a loud, yawning sound. It had not been oiled in some time. Indeed, the inside of the structure revealed a large open room that appeared dark and largely unkept. It was filled from floor to ceiling with shelves upon shelves of countless books – possibly more books than Damen had seen in his lifetime. Every surface, from the desks to the stools to the patches of the tiled floors carried piles of books. The second level was simply comprised of a narrow walkway circling the perimeter of the structure, which could be accessed by a number of spiralling wrought iron staircases, and which led to more overflowing shelves of books. Damianos’ eyes followed the rows upwards, to the underside of the dome, which was ornamented, in exquisite detail, with paintings of clouds, cherubs and a glittering representation of some ancient Veretian King.

“What are you doing here?” 

Damianos’ attention was drawn back to his present purpose by the sound of Laurent’s voice. He was standing across the room, near a window seat that extended out from beneath one of the illuminated stained glass windows. Whilst the glass was exquisite, it afforded little light, hence there was a tall candle perched in a wax covered candleholder, resting on a small wooden table by the seat. The light of the candle lit up Laurent’s features from below, casting him with an air of beauty that was reminiscent of the cherubs painted on the underside of the dome. 

He still held in his hand the book he had been reading, closed but with his finger trapped inside it to mark the page. 

“I am here to see you,” Damianos said, approaching. 

“No,” Laurent said, urgently, “you are not permitted to be here. If Auguste knew, he would…” 

“Auguste directed me here. Do you think I would have found you on my own?” 

Damianos regarded Laurent and quickly understood that he was encroaching on a space that was deeply personal to him, a place where he let his guard down. None of his hurt or apprehension was concealed; it was laid bare in his panicked, wide eyed gaze. He was still the fierce, proud and intelligent youth that had first stolen Damianos’ breath away, but he appeared, at this moment, younger than his years. 

Rather than take advantage of that, Damianos approached silently, giving Laurent a chance to gather his bearings. But he seemed unable to do so. Something about this place prevented him from donning his protective mask and concealing his true self. 

“Auguste told you I was here?” he asked. It seemed that both the truth of that statement, and the possibility of it being an outright lie, were equally impossible to fathom. “Why would he do that?” 

Damianos stopped when he was standing close enough to reach out and touch Laurent. He wanted to, but he consciously held his hands firmly by his side. 

“I think it was because he believed me when I said I wanted to make things right with you, and trusted me not to fuck it up.” 

“Not the wisest decision he’s ever made,” Laurent said flatly. 

Damianos smiled. “ _There_ you are.” 

Even in the low light of the stained glass, Damianos caught the flush of Laurent’s cheeks, in the moment before he turned his face away to hide them. Damianos did not press him, but wandered over to the seat beside the window where Laurent had been sitting, and sat there himself, waiting for Laurent to turn around. And when he did, Damianos patted the seat beside him. Laurent rolled his eyes, but after a moment of hesitation and indecision, came over and sat down. Damianos took the book from his hands and set it down carefully on the small table, open to the page that Laurent had marked with his finger. 

“Forgive me,” Damianos said quietly. 

“Forgive you,” Laurent repeated back at him. “For thinking the worst of me and my brother?” 

“No,” Damianos said, soberly. “For expressing myself poorly. I made you doubt my respect for you and Auguste and for that, I am very sorry.” 

There was a shimmer in Laurent’s eyes, and his gaze on Damianos softened. “I know how it must have looked,” he said. There was a sadness in his voice that made Damianos ache, inwardly. He much preferred anger. 

“It looked like two brothers who care very much for each other.” 

“And who are alone in the world,” Laurent added, with a tremor to his voice. His brow furrowed, and he turned his face away But Damianos gently reached for him, touching a single fingertip to his chin, and drew him back again. 

“You are not alone, Laurent.” 

“You don’t understand.” He breathed the words out through gritted teeth. We _are_ alone. Worse than alone – we are surrounded.” 

Damianos was sobered. He sensed, finally, the burden that was crushing Laurent, and wanted nothing more than to know how to share its weight. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m listening.”

Laurent’s eyes were drawn to the ground and it clearly pained him to speak, but he forced the words out of himself without looking at Damianos. 

“After my father’s death, Auguste was grieving – not just the loss of our father, but the loss of his life as he had known it. He wasn’t ready to be King. There was so much he had to learn and it consumed him. And my Uncle, seeing how alone I felt, how lonely, tried to turn me away from Auguste, to make me believe that Auguste didn’t care about me. Tried to make me believe that _he_ was the only one who cared. The only one who loved me.” 

Damianos was silent for a long time. When Laurent opened his eyes and turned to him, he saw Damianos’ eyes filled with compassion.

“Did he succeed?” 

Laurent narrowed his eyes, and they teetered on the edge of fury, before retreating back to a wistful calm. “No. Auguste saw what was happening and intervened before it was too late. He kept me close to him to protect me. And my Uncle twisted that to start the rumours you have heard. One way or another, he is determined to destroy us.” 

“Knowing this,” Damianos said, his outrage carefully concealed, “How has Auguste let him live?” 

“Auguste is waiting for the moment to strike and my Uncle knows it. That’s why he’s trying to get to Auguste, first. Auguste has the love of his people, but he is losing the support of the council, and now my Uncle has your father’s ear. Auguste is being backed into a corner, and his hatred for my Uncle is driving him down a dangerous path.”

“I see,” Damianos said, exhaling the world under his breath. “I understand.” And then, after a long pause, “Thank you for trusting me with this.” 

Something akin to laughter burst out of Laurent. He shook his head. “Trusting you? Is that what you think this is, Damianos? We can’t trust you. We can’t trust _anyone_. But if your father’s view of my brother’s character is coloured by my Uncle’s lies, I have no choice but to try and expose them, even if it means revealing something of myself that I would rather not expose to anyone. If your father supports my Uncle seizing power in Vere, Auguste and I are as good as dead.”

“No,” Damianos said determinedly, “I would never let that happen!” 

Laurent regarded Damianos, curiously, and then asked, “If that is the path your father has chosen, is it in your power to stop it?” 

Damianos searched for an answer, but hesitated. He didn’t know what the true answer was. When he rose silently from his seat, Laurent reached up and clasped his wrist, staring up at him. “Where are you going?” 

“To speak to my father,” he said quietly. “I have wronged you, in setting into action this course of events. And now I am going to make amends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to Spiritheart for your feedback on this one, which was invaluable.


	12. Father & Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest thanks to everyone who has left comments and kudos on this story - each one fills me with a little jolt of happiness and inspiration. I'm grateful! 
> 
> Many, many thanks to Spiritheart for all her wisdom, insight and, above all, for encouraging me to keep going! You're the best x

Damianos and Theomedes stood facing each other at opposite sides of the broad, wooden table. They were alone, now, but strewn across the tabletop were remnants of the animated congregation that Damianos had interrupted when he entered his father’s chambers, unannounced – open tomes, maps and parchments that had been scrawled upon in the hand of his father’s scribe. Damianos had been determined to see his father to discuss Auguste’s predicament, and out of concern for Laurent, but upon finding Theomedes confined in his chamber’s with the King’s Uncle and Kastor and a handful of their men, in a negotiation from which Damianos had been excluded and of which he had no knowledge, his anger and pride were inflamed. His agitation was such that the King’s own guards seemed fearful of leaving them unattended, when Damianos demanded in a thundering voice to speak to his father alone. 

Theomedes ordered them out, nonetheless. Damianos took bittersweet comfort in that his wishes still had, at the very least, that much currency – but it was comfort that evaporated when Kastor passed him with a look of unconcealed hostility – a look that in their younger years never failed to signal that Damianos would soon have to pay for an offence that he had caused his older brother. _Pay_ , in one way or another. 

Now they were alone and facing each other, father and son, and it occurred to Damianos that this was the first time they had shared a private moment since they rode out through the gates of Ios. Somehow, since that time, the world around them had become more complex than Damianos had imagined it could be. Or, perhaps, Damianos recognised the complexity of the world around them in a way that he had never been capable of, before. 

Four years earlier, the war over Delpha had seemed to Damianos a logical, inevitable thing – the only obvious way to right a wrong that had been festering in the collective memory of his people for almost a century. Facing the Veretian King on the battlefield in Marlas had seemed, too, to be an easily justifiable act – an act fuelled by a sense of honour and justice, and which brought the bloody battle to an end for both sides and restored Delpha to its rightful place in the realm. 

Yet, to face the son of the man who died with a swing of Damianos’ sword – to sit at his table, partake of his food and wine, to know his struggles and to sense the weight of the crown that he carried – was, to Damianos, to comprehend the broader consequences of his actions. He was coming to understand that one man’s justice is another’s loss and pain. 

So it was that Damianos felt, keenly, the looming threat of an alliance between his father and the King’s uncle. Beyond seeing it as a political and diplomatic disaster, he sensed, too, what the human cost would be. And with all of this unfolding behind his back and without his knowledge, he felt powerless to stop it, like an actor in the chorus of a tragedy. 

“Father.” His voice was lowered, but the feeling with which it was wrought fully penetrated the silence. “For as long as I can remember, I have stood at your right hand. You have praised me for my strength of will and judgment. When I have made mistakes, you have guided me. I believed it meant something to you that I have followed in your footsteps, wanting only to be a worthy son to you, and when the time comes, a King who will lead Akielos in your tradition of wisdom and honour. Tell me what has changed!” 

Damianos expected anger and impatience from his father, who tended to view outbursts of emotion as weak and self-indulgent. But whilst his father’s jaw clenched, and his lips pressed tight, Damianos saw a glimmer of something else in his eyes – something sympathetic to Damianos’ words – and it gave him hope. 

“Perhaps it is you who have changed, my son.” His voice was measured, but this only thinly veiled the darkness of his tone. “Was it not always your choice, to follow in my footsteps, to stand at my right hand? And yet, since we reached Arles, your whims have taken you elsewhere. Yes… yes,” Theomedes languidly waved his hand towards Damianos. “There is much to be said for your _judgment_ , when you are thinking with your head. But are you thinking with your head, Damianos?” 

Damianos was aggrieved. 

“Do you mock me, Father? What do you say I am thinking with, if not my head?” 

Theomedes’ lips twisted, distastefully. “Don’t feign ignorance, my son. You may have disarmed Aleron of his sword but he had two other weapons lying in wait, each of them more lethal and more treacherous than a blade. With a pair of sapphire eyes and a crown of golden hair, the fallen king may yet strike the final blow, against you and against Akielos.” 

Damianos flushed with anger and embarrassment. He feared that there was truth in his father’s warning, made evident by the fact that Damianos’ first instinct was to defend Auguste and Laurent against the accusation that they were no more than instruments of their father’s revenge. But he stopped himself in time, and said instead, “Those are not your words, father. Who is telling you this? Yes, I have certain… weaknesses, but have I ever let them get the better of me?” 

Theomedes answered with a raised eyebrow, and Damianos shouted, “I mean when it has really mattered! Do you think I would let it come between us?” 

“You let a wanton seductress come between you and your brother!” This time Theomedes shouted the words, and they carried real anger. “You let a woman who you barely knew and should never have trusted break the bond between you and your own blood!” 

Damianos’ hands were quivering. He clenched them into fists. The blow of his father’s words was more forceful than any physical assault. For the first time in his life, he saw that his father was truly ashamed of him. 

“I had been courting her for months. Father, Kastor knew how I felt about her…” 

“And what if he did? There are many beautiful women in Akielos, my son, but brothers are in short supply!” 

“No, you don’t understand.” His voice quietened. “It isn’t about her, father. it is about _him_! He is my brother and he… he …” 

The expression on Theomedes’ face became less severe as he watched Damianos crumble into a chair. 

“I would cut off my hand before I took something that belonged to one of my brothers. Alexios would do the same. But Kastor…” Damianos shook his head. “It’s not how it was when I was a child. Or maybe it is how it is how it has always been, but until Jokaste, I was blind to it. He cannot stand to see me rise. He cannot stand to see me happy. To him, my happiness feels like oppression.” 

“And you want to see me punish him for that?” 

“No!” Damianos shouted. “No, I don’t want him to be punished! I want him to stop! I want him to love me, as I do him! In this world where I can trust almost no one, I want to know that I can trust _him_!” 

Damianos was staring down at his hands. He heard his father’s movement, sensed him rounding the table and, finally, taking the chair beside him. It was some time before his father spoke. When he did, the last of his anger had dissipated. 

“I fear, my son, that you are clinging to a desire that will never be fulfilled. Kastor will never love you as you do, him.” Damianos’ eyes shot upwards and met his father’s. They were not the words he was expecting. “Until he has your goodness, he will never have the capacity to love as you do. And I take comfort in that. You need to be surrounded by men like Kastor.” 

Damanios’ brow furrowed. “Because you think I’m weak?” 

The corner of Theomedes’ lips lifted, very slightly. “You are anything but weak, my son. But there are times when you need to be reminded to show your strength.” 

Damianos absorbed these words, and was silent for a few moments, before speaking. “Let me show my strength by saying that, as the Crown Prince and future ruler of Akielos, I will not support any action that involves removing the rightful King of Vere in favour of an alliance with his scheming Uncle.” 

Theomedes leaned back in his chair, and sighed deeply, watching Damianos with thoughtfulness and perhaps a slight hint of amusement. Damianos continued. 

“I have seen and heard nothing from Auguste to justify removing him from his rightful place. And how can we trust a man who would betray his own kin? If his own nephews can’t trust him, his own blood, what hope do we have?” 

“Firstly,” Theomedes said, “how do you know he intends to betray his nephews?” 

“He has already betrayed them,” Damianos said, simply. “I saw the attempt on Auguste’s life with my own eyes. I watched Auguste let the assailant go, because he felt too unsure in his position with the Veretian council to take the assailant’s life, for fear that it would be twisted against him. Only his Uncle could wield that sort of power over the council and over him. I have watched the stiff, impenetrable, unreadable Laurent break down and tremble like a child with hatred and fear at his Uncle’s continuing attempts to destroy him and his brother. And I saw the look in your eyes when I made the accusation – with respect, father, it was far from a denial.” 

Theomedes nodded and tapped his finger on the wooden arm of his chair, in contemplation. 

“Am I wrong?” Damianos asked. 

“Not wrong in your estimation of their Uncle, no. But wrong in your estimation of me.” 

Damianos turned slightly in his chair. “What do you mean?”

Theomedes answered with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “It has been a useful exercise for me to hear that Venetian snake make his case against the King; to listen to him try to charm us with his web of lies and promises of dominion over Patran and Veretian territories. It has given me a rather helpful insight into his ambition – and the extent of his treachery. But I am not so much a fool as to be blind to the fact that he would stab us in the back at his first opportunity.” 

It was Damianos’ turn to sigh, deeply and audibly. He sank back into his chair; a perfect mirror to his father’s relaxed and regal pose. 

“I wish you had told me.” 

“And when should I have told you? I have barely seen you! You have been too busy gallivanting …” 

Damianos began to laugh before his father could finish. Theomedes feigned gruff disapproval, but there was a glimmer in his eyes. 

“I was your age once, my son. There is nothing you can try to get away with, that I didn’t try to get away with, before you.” 

Damianos’ laughter softened into a smile, and he looked over at his father with the same deep respect and admiration that he had felt since he was a child. Then his smile faded, and he asked more soberly, “What about Kastor? Does he share your opinions?” 

Theomedes shook his head with a deep frown. “Kastor is blinded by his ambitions for Akielos. And he is a poor judge of character. You know this about your brother.” 

“Father…” Damianos sat up. 

“It is not a matter for Kastor to decide,” Theomedes said, with another wave of his hand, this time towards the table. “He knows I was unmoved by this last attempt to persuade me. _But_ ,” he said emphatically, “that doesn’t mean my opinion of you cavorting with Auguste has changed. And best not to ask my opinion on the little brat.” 

Damianos smiled, inwardly. He thought “little brat” was a rather apt description for Laurent – one that Laurent might, in fact, wear with pride. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “It would be ill advised to form an opinion about Auguste – and Laurent, for that matter – without ever having had a free and open discussion with them. Your instincts are good, father. Better than mine. If you meet with them and tell me they are lascivious snakes just waiting for the right moment to ensnare me – I will believe you.   
“Will you?” Theomedes asked, rhetorically.

Damianos supressed a grin. 

It was Theomedes turn to sit up and mirror his son’s pose. “I have been frank with you, Damianos, and now it is your turn to be frank with me. Have you entangled yourself with either or both of them? You know what I am referring to.” 

Damianos shook his head. “I haven’t even come close.” 

“And do you wish to?” 

Damianos held his sober expression, but felt his face flush, slightly. 

“I think Laurent might possibly be the boldest and most stubborn person that I have ever met, and the most exquisitely beautiful, but he would sooner cut off my head and mount it on a spike than let me lay a finger on him. With good reason. He despises me.” 

“Does he?” Again, the question seemed rhetorical, and Damianos narrowed his eyes on his father. 

“He does, father.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Why wouldn’t he, after what I’ve done? Surely you’ve seen the way he looks at me…” 

“Yes,” his father nodded, slowly. “I have seen the way he looks at you when you are looking back at him. And I have seen the way he looks at you when you are not.” 

Damianos blinked his eyes, but before he could say anything, his father was out of his seat and clasping his shoulder. 

“I will arrange for us to meet with Auguste and Laurent tonight. Best not mention it to Kastor, for now. In the meantime – try to stay out of trouble, will you?” 

Theomedes moved to leave, but before he could step away, Damianos rose out of his chair, caught him by his arms and embraced him. 

-

Damianos knew his father had been true to his word and had arranged the meeting when he passed Laurent outside the chamber where Auguste was meeting with the Akielon delegation, later that afternoon. Laurent walked straight past him, his expression inscrutable rather than openly hostile, which never failed to make Damianos feel optimistic about their progress. Then, after passing him, Laurent stopped, stood still for a moment, then turned on his heels and came back towards him. As he approached, Damianos greeted him with a warm smile. 

“I suppose you are waiting for me to thank you.” Laurent blurted out the words like an accusation. 

Damianos feigned total ignorance and tilted his head questioningly. “For what?” 

Inwardly, he took great pleasure in watching the roll of Laurent’s eyes. In a rather brotherly way, it made him want to reach out and pinch him. 

“Fine. Thank you,” Laurent said, as if Damianos had demanded it of him in the strongest possible terms. It seemed to have required a good deal of effort, and Damianos almost asked him if he needed to sit down. 

Instead, he leaned in and said below his breath, “I want nothing from you that you do not freely wish to give, so save your thanks, Your Highness.” And then, before turning and walking into the chamber where his father and Kastor were waiting, “I will see you, tonight.”


	13. The Clash of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."  
> \- Winston Churchill 
> 
> A word of caution for anyone feeling fainthearted today - things get a little intense at the end of this chapter. For everyone else, I hope you enjoy it and would love to know your thoughts! 
> 
> Thank you so much to Spiritheart for your wisdom and encouragement, much appreciated as always xx

As Damianos waited for the hours to pass, in preparation for the meeting with Auguste, Laurent and his father, his thoughts continually reverted to his encounter with Laurent, in the library – to the Prince’s weary countenance, his sombre tone of voice, and his evocation of a world here in Vere that was more dangerous and convoluted than he believed Damianos capable of comprehending. 

And Damianos feared that Laurent was right. A show of solidarity between his father and Auguste would mean something to the Veretian Council, and would no doubt slow his Uncle’s momentum, but who was to say what would transpire once the Akielon delegation rode out through the gates of Arles? It was clear enough to Damianos that this would not bring an end to the Uncle’s political machinations. Given his father’s mistrust of the man, would they really simply turn and go, leaving the King and his brother as exposed and vulnerable as they had found them? 

Damianos harboured wild thoughts of taking Laurent back to Ios with him, to keep him close and safe, and to keep Aleron’s line protected. Arrangements of this kind were common between newly allied nations, though the objective was more commonly political leverage. Perhaps Auguste could be persuaded? 

He shared some of these thoughts with Nikandros, who had come to join him in his chambers for wine and an afternoon repast, but he found his old friend to be less than receptive. 

“We would call it a gesture of good will, and that’s exactly what it would be,” he explained, as Erasmus refilled his cup of wine. He imagined thousands of Akielons lining the way to the palace to welcome home their King, and to catch a glimpse of the golden crowned Prince of Vere with eyes the colour of the Elosean Sea. “Despite his arrogance, I think the vision of his beauty and grace would eclipse those petty, outdated perceptions that all Veretians are monstrous and unpleasant...” 

Nikandros coughed and muttered, with his cup of wine at his lips, “Prince Laurent is not going to dispel _anyone’s_ perceptions of Veretians as monstrous and unpleasant…” 

Damianos chose to not to hear him. 

“Laurent would detest the idea at first, no doubt, and would be unbearable for a while,” he continued, “but he would soon discover the pleasures of the Akielon sun, bathing in the midsummer waves, the heady fruit wines from Kesus and Thrace and music from the bards of Isthima. He and Alexios would make friends, and would study and spar together. Even Laurent could not resist Alexios’ good humour and charm, and Alexios could stand to let some of Laurent’s incisive intelligence rub off on him. Their friendship would be symbolic of everything the alliance between their nations could offer.”

Damianos watched this unfold in his mind’s eye with fondness in his heart, feeling that if that was all there ever was between him and Laurent, it would be enough. It would be more, at least, than leaving Arles and never seeing him again. He didn’t even notice Nikandros bristling, but he heard the anger in Nikandros’ voice when he spoke up. 

“You jest, Damianos. It is one thing for you to make idiotic decisions on the basis of your penchant for pretty blonde Veretian princes, and another to involve your younger brother! I would sooner watch Alexios be lured into a pit of venomous snakes than have him be drawn into a friendship with that devious little monster!” 

Damianos blinked his eyes and then wordlessly studied Nikandros for a moment or two. _Devious little monster_?

“Are you questioning my devotion to Alexios?” he asked, his irritation manifesting in his voice. 

“I’m questioning whether you are as eager to protect him, your own brother, as you are to protect that _beautiful, graceful, not at all obnoxious_ Prince Laurent!” 

Damianos set down his cup and rose out of his chair. In all the years they had known each other, Nikandros had rarely shown any real lack of confidence in Damianos, and Damianos’ had never doubted Nikandros’ faith in him, other than when it came to matters concerning Alexios. In Nikandros’ eyes, nothing Damianos did for Alexios was good enough – for that matter, nothing Theomedes ever did was good enough, either. True, he had been charged with mentoring Alexios, and training him to fight – but not so he could coddle him like an overprotective nursemaid! 

“Yet again, Nikandros, you speak of Alexios is though he is the King, and we are all his subjects.” 

Nikandros shook his head from where he remained uncomfortably seated. “You mistake me. Your father, the King, has my undying loyalty and I would give my life in his service, and gladly… but if Alexios _was_ the King he would be a good and honourable one, and place nothing above the wellbeing of his brothers – especially, you!” 

Damianos toyed with the idea of knocking Nikandros off the chair, entirely. He surmised that he could do it without causing any lasting injuries – perhaps, just a headache and a split lip, which would be well deserved. But he found himself unable to punish any act, even one of disrespect and defiance, that was made in defence of his own little brother. Particularly as Nikandros’ words were undoubtedly true. 

And besides, Damianos knew that Laurent would never leave Auguste’s side, and Auguste would never allow it, any more than Damianos himself would allow Alexios to be carted off across the continent for the sake of fortifying an alliance. It was a dream, nothing more, and he supposed, not worth fighting over. 

“Well?” Nikandros said, standing, finally. “Are you going to hit me, or are you just going to stand there with that pitiful look on your face?” 

Damianos frowned, and turned to Erasmus, who was regarding them both curiously, and with a small but perceptible measure of amusement. 

“Do you think the look on my face is pitiful, Erasmus?” 

“Only a very little,” Erasmus said, without so much as a pause, and the unexpectedness of it caused Damianos to smile, despite his best attempt at looking aggrieved. Even Nikandros’ sternness broke a little. 

“We should go,” Nikandros said, abandoning the argument which, for all intents and purposes, he had already won. “It is almost twilight. Your father will soon be on his way.” 

With a red cloak draped over his arm, Erasmus came over to Damianos. Before affixing the garment, Erasmus stepped up close to Damianos and slumped against him, his forehead resting in the centre of Damianos’ chest. The room became quiet, with Damianos and Nikandros exchanging quizzical glances. Such easy displays of intimacy were usually reserved for when they were alone. Damianos wrapped his arms around Erasmus and held him, asking quietly, “Are you unwell?” 

“No,” Erasmus whispered back. “I only… I worry, for you. There have been whispers in the palace, today. Furtive glances. I don’t know what’s happening, but… please be safe.”

Damianos rubbed his hand over Erasmus’ shoulder. “Apart from the fact that I will be in the company of two kings and under the full protection of their personal guard, I am not as incapable of protecting myself as you seem to think.” Erasmus lingered for a moment, lifting his head and staring up at Damianos. Finally, he nodded, and proceeded to affix Damianos’ cloak. 

As he was finishing, they all looked up at the sound of voices outside the chamber door. There were protestations from the guards, followed by a loud bang caused by a blow that forced the door open. Nikandros reached for his sword. Damianos did the same, holding out his arm to keep Erasmus back.

The tension surged when Kastor came into view in the doorway. 

“This is hardly a fitting welcome, little brother” he said, eyeing Damianos’ sword and holding out his hands. Damianos could tell from the way he spoke that he was drunk – drunker than usual. And there was something in his eyes that provoked Damianos’ unease. He appeared – distressed. And that was more disturbing to Damianos than animosity or anger. 

“Kastor…” 

“Going somewhere?” He teetered on his feet, regarding Damianos from head to toe, and back up again. 

“Kastor,” Damianos said, again. “Where are your guards? Tell me you haven’t been wandering the palace like this, alone.” 

Kaster’s blistering laughter had a violence to it, and Damianos felt it like a blow. 

“I’m quite safe, little brother. No need to worry about me.” 

Damianos felt Nikandros’ heated gaze. He turned and met his eyes, which were wide and on guard. He noticed Nikandros’ hand, still on the hilt of his sword. 

“Where did you say you were going, brother” Kastor said again, approaching – his eyes turning to Erasmus just as his lips formed a grotesque, drunken smile. 

“Nowhere. To drink with Nikandros and some of the men.” The dishonesty was bitter on Damianos’ tongue, but he would not betray his father by revealing the truth he had been asked to conceal. 

“Well dressed for the occasion,” Kastor said, with a glint of amusement in his eyes, which were still fixed on Erasmus as he came ever closer. “You go drink with Nikandros and some of the other men, then. I’ll keep your slave company.”  
Damianos took a step forward – it was enough to prevent Kastor from coming any closer. “That won’t be necessary.” 

“Who said anything about it being necessary?” His eyes were wandering over Erasmus and Damianos had to clench his fists to keep from striking out. “Don’t worry, little brother – I’ll leave him as I found him, more or less…” 

Damianos surged forward, pushing Kastor backwards, and it was almost enough for him to lose his balance. If Damianos was not so angry, he would have been confused. He had rarely seen Kastor like this. Of all nights for him to have chosen to lose all self-control…

Kastor was laughing again, but his eyes were glazed over and humourless. He lifted his hands in mock obsequiousness as he met Damianos’ eyes. “Forgive me, forgive me… I forgot, you don’t like me touching your things! Well, someone’s going to have to keep me company, so if not the slave, perhaps it should be you… what do you say, little brother? Shall we stay in and drink together, for old time’s sake? I have been meaning to talk to you…” 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Damianos said. 

“Just the talking then,” Kastor offered – and it was strange to Damianos’ ears, because Kastor always cared very little for conversation. “Alone,” he added. And for an instant, the glaze over his eyes lifted, and his gaze on Damianos was clear and vicious. 

“I will walk you back to your chambers,” Damianos said. “We can talk on the way.” 

Damianos raised his hand when Nikandros stepped forward. “Wait here.” 

“Damianos, I am coming with you –“ 

“I said, wait here.” 

“- I am assigned to your protection, not the protection of a slave!” 

“Enough. That is the second time you have disrespected me,” he said, and there was heat in his voice, though it was not raised. “You will wait here while I escort my brother back to his rooms. That is not a request.” 

Damianos and Kastor were alone in the abandoned halls of the palace that led to Kastor’s chambers. The wall sconces had not been lit, and the palace was as dark as Damianos had ever seen it. Kastor apparently did want to talk – about Jokaste – a subject which Damianos had no interest in traversing with him. 

“She came to me, little brother.” He was laughing drunkenly again. “You think I took what was yours, but I took nothing that didn’t want to be taken…” 

“It doesn’t matter”, Damianos said. “I harbour no ill will.” 

“You harbour no ill will?” Kastor asked. “Even though I knew how you felt about her?” 

Damianos paused, standing still, the familiarity of those words sending a shiver through his body. Kastor eyed him, unmoving. 

“She threw herself at me like a common whore,” he said, slowly, relishing in the words, “and I fucked her like one. I thought she liked it. But maybe she just needed someone to help rid her of your pitiful courtship. Who am I to know?” He shrugged. “I am a poor judge of character.” 

Damianos was silent, as he regarded his older brother, rendered speechless by sadness and pity, for Kastor, for Jokaste, for whatever darkness in their souls drew them together. 

_I am a poor judge of character._ The statement reverberated oddly. It was not like Kastor to be self-deprecating. Damianos shook his head to shake off his bewilderment, and began to walk, again. 

“I wish you well of her, Kastor. You’re my brother. Whether you believe it or not, I want you to be happy.” 

Damianos turned when he realised Kastor was not following. He found the haunted look in Kastor’s eyes had now cast a shadow over his entire expression. 

“You think I don’t love you, little brother,” he said, his voice hollow, “but it isn’t so. I have taken no more than what has been taken from me.” 

Then, Kastor seemed to crumble. He stumbled forward, but Damianos caught him, grabbing him by his arms. “Careful!” he said, almost overcome by the weight of Kastor’s body. They stumbled together, and there was a clang of metal on the tiled floor that echoed in the silence that followed. Damianos eased Kastor against the wall, shuddering when he saw the tears in his eyes. When had he ever seen tears in Kastor’s eyes? 

It was a dagger that had fallen. Damianos knelt and picked it up off the ground. He rose and placed it in Kastor’s hand, before resting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Keep it close,” he said, “and don’t leave your chambers again without your guards and your sword. It isn’t safe here for you – for either of us – regardless of what you say.” 

Kastor met his eyes, and after a long silence, slowly nodded. 

To Damianos relief, they walked the rest of the way to Kastor’s chambers in silence. 

_“Kastor is blinded by his ambitions for Akielos. And he is a poor judge of character. You know this about your brother.”_

Damianos recalled his father’s words as he and Nikandros made their way to Auguste’s war room, where the others would have already gathered. Kastor’s echoing of those words seemed a discomfiting coincidence. He told himself he would think on that more, later. For now, he had other matters to grapple with, such as his late arrival for a meeting of Kings that he had pressed for.

They heard the clashes of steel, first, and then the unmistakable cries of bloody violence. Without a word, they ran, and though Damianos moved as fast as his body would carry him, he felt as though he was moving in suspension. 

There were no guards at the entrance and the door was ajar. Damianos entered, and on some level of his consciousness he was aware of the mad chaos of the room, of Akielons and Veretians clashing swords, of men, dead and dying, their bodies strewn amidst splintered wood and broken glass, of the thick scent of blood in the air, of swords clashing, but this was all distant and meaningless to him. None of it mattered… 

He moved into the room like a wraith, falling to his knees on the ground where his father’s lifeless form was splayed. The ground gave out beneath him, the walls closing in, and he was falling, grasping, clinging to his father’s body helplessly, blood now covering his hands. His anguish burned like fire in his chest, and it hurt too much to breathe. 

_”Father.”_

He heard the harrowing cry as though it were distant, and not of his own making, and then felt Nikandros clutching at the back of his chiton, trying to drag him to his feet. 

“Damianos, draw your sword!” 

“Father!” he called again, his hands shaking as his fingers gently touched the hilt of the dagger that protruded from his father’s chest. But there was no answer. Only the glassy stare of his father’s eyes, fixed open, his mouth agape as though he had parted his lips to speak at the moment his soul and voice had left him. Damianos would never again have an answer to “Father”. He would never hear his father’s voice, again. His father would never ride again, through the gates of Ios. He could barely begin to touch the enormity of it and yet he felt crushed beneath its weight. 

“Damianos!” Nikandros shouted. 

He looked up, saw the Veretian soldier charging, heard the ferocity in Laurent’s voice in the distance. 

“No! What are you doing? Protect the King! Protect Auguste!” 

He watched the sword as it came lunging at him, halted only by a sweep of Nikandros’ blade, which deflected it and then cut through the throat of the assailant, who fell amidst the splattering of his own blood. 

“NO!” Laurent’s voice again, a cry wrought with all the pain that Damianos felt wrenching the heart inside of him. 

Auguste had fallen at the hands of an Akielon guard and was writhing in a pool of blood. He was alone, abandoned by his own men, who now came for Damianos. He groaned, not with pain, but in horror at the sight of the remaining two Akielon guards setting their sights on Laurent. 

“To Prince Damianos, you fools!” Nikandros called out to them, with the same desperation that had been etched in Laurent’s voice when he called to Auguste’s men, but they did not heed him. And they were not needed. Damianos unsheathed his sword and swung with such force that the first Veretian that came for him was severed almost in two, causing the others to gasp and lurch backwards. 

“I want him alive.” The words were spoken by Damianos to the Akielons, but it was as though he had not spoken. Ignoring him, they launched a relentless assault against Laurent, who was barely holding them back. 

“Laurent…” Auguste’s voice, withering, tortured… “Damianos, _please_ …”

Damianos tore through the remaining Veretian guards in seconds, leaving no work for Nikandros to do but stand out of the way of the arc of his sword. 

“I said I want him alive!” he said, approaching the Akielons, who only attacked with a greater urgency. Laurent fought back desperately, and when he was almost overcome, grabbed the sword by the hilt and ran it through the belly of one of the guards, leaving himself exposed to the other. But as the remaining guard lifted his sword to strike, Damianos’ sword ran through the centre of his back till it protruded through his chest. When Damianos withdrew the sword, the body fell, leaving Damianos and Laurent facing each other. 

“Auguste,” Laurent whispered to Damianos, his face deathly white. He turned and ran to his brother, falling to his knees and pressing his hands over the wound. 

“Laurent,” Auguste whispered back to him, his lips a ghostly blue and his bloodied hand reaching for his brother. 

“Stop talking,” Laurent fired angrily, choking back a sob. 

“It will be all right,” Auguste said softly. 

“You can’t leave me!” Laurent screamed at him. “You can’t leave me!” 

And as this unravelled, Damianos had returned to his father’s side. He pressed his hands to his father’s face to feel the last of the warmth that remained in them, before it slipped away. Nikandros was kneeling beside him, moaning with grief. 

By the time Damianos looked up, there were others in the room. The King’s Uncle standing over Auguste’s motionless body and Laurent, saying pitifully to them both, “What have you done?” Kastor, staring at Theomedes from a distance, his face grey and listless. And Damianos’ guards barely showing restraint, their faces wracked with shock and pain, all of them watching him and waiting for his direction. 

“Exalted. What are your orders?” Nikandros asked, his hand pressed on Damianos’ arm. 

Damianos looked up at met Laurent’s bloodshot eyes across the room. 

“My father came to treat with you in good faith, and this is how you repay him.” 

He let his gaze fall back upon his father. 

“I want them both in chains.”


	14. The Truth Laid Bare

Damianos made his way down the narrow staircase in the early hours of the morning. He had, by that time, lost all sense of the hour, but when he had cast his vision out through the narrow arched windows, before descending underground, all he had seen was darkness, with the moon cowering behind a thick haze of clouds, and the sunrise yet to touch the horizon. 

Here, there was no light but for the sconces lit at infrequent intervals, revealing unadorned, stone walls. There was no ornamentation – no frescoed warriors, or gilded ceilings. No distractions now, finally, when he was most in need of them. Instead he was left alone in the emptiness with his thoughts – with the nightmare of this, his new reality. This - moreso even than the fatigue that addled his mind and body – made the staircase seem endless. 

He tried to focus his mind on the conversations that had occurred in the preceding hours. 

_”I feared that it would come to this, Prince Damianos. My nephew’s recklessness and ambition know no bounds. You cannot say that I didn’t warn you. I warned your father. And yet, he played right into my nephew’s hands... But one must not speak ill of the dead. Your father paid the ultimate price. And so will my nephew, of that I can assure you!”_

_”Yes, he will. In Ios, where he will be tried and punished before my people. If I cannot give them back their King, I can at least give them the satisfaction of witnessing justice being served.”_

_”Your Highness, I… I do not think… In his present state, Auguste will not even survive the journey to Ios! I think it would be best if…”_

_”I will be the judge of what is best. For Akielos and for my father’s killers. We leave at sunrise.”_

Even now, Damianos’ men were in the courtyard, readying the horses and the wagons. His father’s body was… 

He stopped, and rested his hand on the cold, damp bricks and gasped for air. He wanted to go back to his father. He wanted to be close to him. He had stayed with the body for as long as they had allowed. He vaguely recalled Nikandros’ and Kastor’s heavy hands, restraining him, forcing him out of the room, so that the final rites could be performed and the body prepared for the long journey. 

His body heaved with agony and shock and tears flooded his eyes. It took time to steady himself. When he could breathe again, he slowly continued his descent. 

His father’s body was now being moved to one of the wagons, flanked by Damianos’ men. But not Kastor’s. Kastor had declared that he would stay in Arles, to oversee the transition of power to their ally, and to ensure that all who were responsible for their father’s death would be rounded up and punished. 

Damianos reached the landing at the bottom of the staircase. It faced a heavy wooden door that rose into a pointed arch, crowned with an engraving of a human skull. He banged on it, and a slat was opened on the other side, revealing a pair of eyes, familiar, though bloodshot. The slat closed, the door opened, and Nikandros came towards him, crossing the threshold. 

“You shouldn’t be alone, Damianos.” 

“Pallas and the others are at the top of the stairs.” 

Nikandros nodded, then softened his eyes on his beloved friend. 

“Damianos, if there is anything more that I can do…” 

“There is something,” he said immediately. He stepped forward and kept his voice low. “Alexios. Without you and I there to protect him, he is exposed. I know that if he is in danger, it may be too late to send word in time, but we must find some way to…” 

“Reinforcements have been sent from Delpha. A small army of my father’s most trusted men. If they are not already at the gates of Ios, they will be close.” 

Damianos narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand. How…” 

“The day you rode out with Auguste, and the two of you were attacked, I sent word to my father. I told him you were concerned for Alexios’ protection in your absence. 

“You did this without telling me?” 

Nikandros’ face flushed. “Forgive me, Damianos. After you were attacked, I feared you and your father had been drawn into some danger, and even though you dismissed my concerns,with Alexios alone in Ios…” 

Damianos grabbed him and silenced him with a firm embrace, that Nikandros soon returned. And for a long time, they did not let go. 

“Thank you, Nikos.” 

When they parted, Nikandros brushed his cheeks with the back of his hand, and then gestured to the door. 

“I can guess why you’re here. We have not taken our eyes off of him, as you ordered. He is… well, you will see for yourself.” 

“I want to speak to him alone.” 

After a moment’s hesitation, Nikandros nodded, and entered the palace dungeon, ordering the Akielons guards to leave. They were reluctant – a few of them resisted, showing uncharacteristic disobedience. Hearing this, Damianos entered, and they fell to their knees. He bade them rise and gave them the order, himself. 

The bristled. They did not turn and leave at his commend, as he expected them to. 

“Exalted.” Elon stepped forward and spoke. “Do not ask us to leave you here, alone. We have failed our King. Do not ask us to risk failing our Prince!”

There were murmurs of agreement. Mere hours ago, Damianos would not have tolerated such insubordination, but the fear and love in their eyes left him unable to meet their actions with reproach. But there was authority in his voice, when he said, “You failed no one. Wait for me outside.” He watched as each one of them reluctantly turned and departed, Nikandros meeting his eyes before the door closed behind him. 

Damianos turned, and for the first time, saw Laurent, his hands and clothes still covered in blood, clutching the iron bars and staring at him. 

“I did it,” he said across the distance between them, loud enough for the words to fill the empty room. “And I’m not sorry I did. Your father was a coward and a savage and I wanted him dead! Auguste was just trying to protect me…” His voice faltered when he spoke his brother’s name. “You took my father and now I have taken yours. Now we’re even.” 

Damianos regarded Laurent with a steady gaze, and after a time, approached the bars in silence, until he was close enough to see the trails of dried tears on Laurent’s cheeks. 

Finally, he spoke. “If I thought you capable of murdering my father, that would have been very convincing. You’re an excellent liar.” 

Laurent’s face changed, his mask slipping briefly, before he could steel himself, again. 

“I’m more capable of murdering your father than Auguste is!” he seethed. 

“Yes,” Damianos agreed. “That’s probably true.” 

Laurent gazed at him, his eyes widening with a bewilderment that made him seem younger than his years. 

“Auguste is still alive,” Damianos continued, his voice even. “He is being tended to by his physician, under the guard of men who I trust. You can stop lying to protect him.” 

“Auguste is…” Whatever the sentence was, Laurent couldn’t finish it. His eyes became bloodshot and his bottom lip quivered. “I don’t understand,” he said, instead. “If you don’t believe we orchestrated your father’s death, why have you imprisoned us?” 

“If I hadn’t, you and your brother would be dead.” Damianos didn’t have the time to wait for Laurent to fully comprehend the words. “Tell me what happened.” 

“It happened quickly,” Laurent said, quietly. “The guards fell first, cut down by their own.” 

“Akielon or Veretian?” 

“Both. Akielon against Akielon, Veretian against Veretian. Those who were parties to the treason against those who were not. The men that fell were not expecting it, and that made them helpless – and we didn’t know what was happening until one of your Akielon guards unsheathed his dagger and struck your father…” 

Damianos’ eyes didn’t blink. He leaned forward and gripped the bars. 

“Auguste killed the guard who took your father’s life, but then we were swarmed, including by some of our own men. We took down many of them – clearly, more than our Uncle predicted we would. I expect there were some that were meant to live to tell of how Auguste and I were killed after slaughtering your father. If you hadn’t come when you did… But, why were you not with us from the start? _Where were you?_ ” 

“Kastor…” This time, it was Damianos whose words failed him. A series of images flashed through his mind, of staggering through the halls with Kastor. Kastor, drunk. The tears in Kastor’s eyes. The dagger, falling to the ground. 

He wondered what was meant to have unfolded between him and Kastor in those empty halls. How Kastor had intended to use the dagger. He had pressed the weapon into his brother’s hand, like a hapless fool. What had saved him in that moment? Kastor’s drunkenness? Or perhaps he was Kastor’s weakness, just as in the end, he had been his father’s. 

He could hear Laurent’s voice, but he could no longer make out the words. He was gripping the bars to steady himself. He was not conscious of Laurent’s hand slipping through them, but he did feel the cool press of his fingers at the back of his neck, and they brought him back to the room, to the present, to Laurent’s eyes, which were peering up at him, solemnly. 

“I didn’t mean what I said, Damianos. I… I know how it feels.” 

The words were simple, but they threatened to open the barricades of Damianos’ grief. Perhaps, sensing this, Laurent shifted. 

“What happens now?” 

“You come back with me to Akielos. You and Auguste. It’s the only way to keep you safe.” 

“Safe, in Akielos?” Laurent’s hand dropped. “Our only friends are here in Arles, and every last Akielon will want to see our heads separated from our bodies!” 

“We’ll find the truth, and to bring it to light, but we can’t do that if we’re dead…” 

“If you take us to Ios we’re dead, anyway! And my Uncle will assume the throne here in Arles, consolidate his power. He will align himself with your brother, who will be stupid and easy enough to dispose of when the fighting’s done and my Uncle has everything he wants!” 

Damianos sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes, and down his cheek. 

“Laurent, do you see another day spent in Arles ending in any other way but with the three of us dead?” 

Laurent’s eyes lowered and he bit on the inside of his cheek, his expression progressing from indignance to desperation to reluctant defeat. He looked back up at Damianos and demanded, “How are you going to convince your people we’re not guilty of murdering your father?” 

“I don’t know yet, Laurent,” he sighed. “But if you would stop confessing to it, that would be a good start.” 

Something escaped Laurent’s throat – a soft, raspy laugh, that was for him what his touch had been for Damianos. It tore down his defences, and he clutched the bars with both hands and leaned forward. Damen reached through and clasped his arm. 

They met each other’s eyes unwaveringly, but turned their heads when the door opened, each of them taking a step back. Nikandros entered. 

“Exalted. It is time.”

Damianos nodded. He regarded Laurent once more and turned to go, somehow conscious of the distance between them growing with every step, but at the sound of Laurent’s voice, he stopped at turned. 

“Damianos… Tell them we had an accomplice.” 

\--

The commotion was remarkable. One lost King, another at the point of death, a prince in chains, a swift flight under cover of darkness – and yet, all of it eclipsed at the point of departure by the incessant screaming of a furious child. It took three guards to get him into the wagon with Laurent, whilst Damianos and Nikandros stood and watched on in dismay. 

“His name is Nicaise,” Nikandros said. “I’ll expect you’ll be hearing more from him.” 

“Forget the possibility of his Uncle pursuing us,” Damianos replied. “Will the Prince of Vere survive the journey in… that… company?” 

“It was his idea.” Nikandros clasped Damianos’ shoulder and urged him towards the horses at the front of the column. “He can live with the consequences.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt thanks to Spiritheart, as always, for the beta on this chapter! Not sure I would still be writing this story without your encouragement, and even if I was, it wouldn't be nearly as much fun. x


	15. Rain in the Wilderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tremendous thanks to Spiritheart for your encouragement and for continuing to show interest in this story - it is very likely that without your periodic prompts, I would have left it by the wayside. I appreciate you!

As the rain poured outside, the men huddled in Damianos’ tent, eyeing him intently where he stood with various degrees of confusion, suspicion and fatigue. They had ridden hard since before morning light, beginning their journey at the gates of Arles and ending it here, in this wilderness of grass and rock, close to the borders of Belloy and Varenne, where they were forced to set up camp in darkness and in rain. 

They were irate, burdened by exhaustion and grief. Grief for their king, and for their brothers, who had fallen in Arles. And one thing was certain. None seemed comforted by the fact of Auguste and Laurent in chains. 

“Exalted.” Naos spoke, stepping forward. “Why did we not ride for Chastillon, as agreed before leaving Arles. We left in haste. We need provisions. We need rest. Here we are exposed…” 

“Not as exposed as we would have been in Chastillion,” Damianos said, quietly. 

“But the Regent assured us that we would have safe passage!” 

Damianos shook his head and spoke firmly. 

“The Regent has been a Regent for less than a day, and Auguste was well loved amongst his people. Would you allow the Veretians to pass through our territories unharmed, if they held my brother and me in chains in the back of a wagon?” His brow furrowed, as he gave voice to the thoughts that had been endlessly circling in his mind. “Either the men stationed at Chastillion are loyal to their King, in which case they would likely murder us in our sleep, or they are loyal to the Regent, in which case, we have other reasons to fear them.”

“Then you question the Regent’s true intentions?” 

Damianos’ eyes narrowed on Naos. “Don’t you?” 

There was an eruption of murmurs. 

Another soldier named Laos stepped forward and spoke. “Before leaving Arles, the Regent’s men were eager to remind us that hours before your Exalted father’s death, you berated him in front of all who were present and demanded that he meet with King Auguste. They claimed that you were responsible for our King's death – that you conspired with the Auguste and his brother!” 

There was perfect silence in the room, but for the sound of rainfall. It seemed that none dared to breathe. Damianos stared at the solider and felt the heated gaze of every other man in proximity. 

“Do you believe that?” he asked, with a tremor in his voice. 

The soldier raised his head and straightened his back indignantly. 

“Exalted, we are your men. We know what your Exalted father was to you, and what you were to him. I say this only because it proves the Regent and his men would make fools of us if we let them. They cannot be trusted.” 

“Auguste’s men swear by his honour,” said a young soldier, named Thales. “His people love him. Yet, his Uncle is known to be a schemer and a snake.” 

“I care nothing for the King of Vere,” said another, named Androcles. “But we want justice for our King. We are not puppets of the Regent. And…” he paused, hesitating beneath Damianos’ gaze. “Some of the men believe you know more than what you have revealed to us – that if you truly believed Auguste to be guilty of your father’s murder, you would never have let him live.” 

Damianos regarded Androcles, and then cast his eyes over the others. He did not know by what stroke of grace or fortune he found himself surrounded by these men, his brothers, who knew him and loved him, and would not question him, even in these, the direst of circumstances. 

“If you believe in me, as you say you do,” he said, his gaze meeting one pair of eyes after another, “then you know that I will act in the best interests of Akielos, and will reveal what I believe is true, when the time is right.” 

It was some time later when the men had filed out, leaving Damianos alone in the large tent with his thoughts and the flickering lamplight. He went over to where a basin of water had been left, close to his pallet, and washed his face and hands. And then he went and sat on a stool that had been pulled up to a table upon which rested a carafe of wine, plates of food that were untouched and a glowing lamp. He stared into the light. 

He yearned for oblivion, and in the first moments it seemed he might accomplish something akin to sleeping with his eyes open. But then, visions of his father flooded into his mind, and memories of the last afternoon they spoke, when Damianos had indeed acted disrespectfully towards his father, forcing him into meeting with Auguste and, in so doing, sealing his fate. Damianos recalled nothing of the warmth in the words which they had exchanged – he could not remember the tenderness of his father’s embrace. His consciousness was flooded, instead, with all that he feared – his father’s disappointment and shame - and it twisted his insides into knots, until he felt he might be sick… 

“Exalted… 

"Exalted…. 

"Damianos!” 

He raised his eyes to find Nikandros staring down at him, anxiously. He felt the press of Nikandros’ hand on his shoulder and wondered how long it had been there. 

“Are you ill?” Nikandros asked, not letting go of him. 

Damianos shook his head. “No.” A half truth. 

Nikandros made a murmuring sound, regarding him intently. And then gestured behind him. “Your prisoner, as requested.” 

Damianos peered around Nikandros, whose large form had concealed, entirely, the presence of Laurent. He looked uncharacteristically dirty and characteristically displeased. He was relieved of his chains. 

“Thank you,” Damianos said. “You may go, now.” 

When he continued to feel Nikandros hand clutching him, perhaps a little tighter, he looked up and met his eyes. “I said, you may go.” 

Nikandros made the murmuring sound again, before lifting his hand, and departing the tent. 

Damianos lifted himself off the stool and tried to shake off the anguished thoughts that lingered at the top of his mind. He approached Laurent, minded to enquire after his wellbeing, when Laurent suddenly and very deliberately took a step back, clenching his right hand into a fist. 

It felt to Damianos as though that fist had struck a blow. He stood still, half expecting that another step might cause Laurent to turn and run. 

“Do you really think I’m going to hurt you?” he asked, sounding more wounded than angry. 

“Maybe you should ask the soldiers who smirked and sniggered as they watched me being dragged to your tent.” 

“I don’t care what they think,” Damianos said. “I asked what you think.” 

“I think you are a hulking brute and I would feel much more comfortable facing you with a sword in my hand.” 

Damianos moved, suddenly. Before he knew what he was doing, he had collected his sword from the foot of the pallet and was shoving the hilt against Laurent’s chest. 

“There. Take it! Face me with a sword in your hand. Better yet, I’ll send it back to the wagon with you, since you obviously prefer the confinement so much!” 

Laurent’s lips remained pressed into a thin line, but Damianos observed his eyes softening, and saw in them a mirror of his exhaustion and pain. Laurent took a hold of the hilt of the sword and held the weight of the blade in his hands for a few moments, before holding it to his side and letting it fall to the ground, with a thud. 

He spoke no words. But the look in his eyes said, clearly enough, that he did not wish to return to the wagon. 

Damianos took a deep breath and said quietly, “I thought you would be more comfortable here. If Nicaise hadn’t killed you, already.” 

A semblance of a smile formed on Laurent’s lips, then disappeared again. “Of course you did.” 

Damianos lacked the energy to continue the exchange. He gestured to the pallet, as he turned his back to Laurent. “You can sleep there if you want. I don’t plan on using it, tonight.” 

He poured himself a cup of wine, and then resumed his seat by the lamp. He quickly disappeared, back into his own thoughts. He found some strange comfort in the distress they caused him – feeling, somehow, that it was the price of his sins against his father. Time passed, and he lost all sense of where he was, or with whom. And when he finally came around, he was surprised to find that Laurent had also pulled up a stool, and was sitting close to him. 

It was the gentleness of Laurent’s gaze, moreso than his presence, that took Damianos off guard. It was a revelation capable of diverting Damianos’ attention from his grief. He watched Laurent’s lips move, once or twice, as though he would speak. It gave him an air of uncertainty that Damianos had never observed on him, before. 

“It seemed that you,” he said, finally, “were your father’s favourite?” 

He stared blankly at Damianos, seemingly worn out with the exertion of making light conversation. 

“I… no,” Damianos said. “My younger brother, Alexios, was his favourite. I’m told that’s usually the way, with youngest sons.” 

Laurent laughed a little, and furrowed his brow. “Is it? I hadn’t realized.” 

“Oh,” Damianos said. “Not in your experience?” 

Laurent shrugged. “Auguste is my older brother. I believe you have met him.” 

Damianos had, indeed, met him, but still preferred Laurent in practically every way. He didn’t say as much, as the profession seemed very likely to be taken the wrong way and used as a weapon of mockery against him. He didn’t notice the light flush on Laurent’s cheeks, nor did he suspect that his expression might have given his feelings on this away. 

“I had hoped you would meet Alexios. And now it seems you will.” 

“Yes. Under the premise of being executed for having killed his father. And that’s assuming we make it to Ios alive…” Laurent stopped himself. Damianos’ eyebrows were raised. “Those things aside, I’ll be very happy to make his acquaintance.” 

Damianos failed to suppress his amusement. 

“What?” Laurent demanded, observing the smile that had briefly crossed Damianos’ lips. 

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. He peered at Laurent, across the small distance between them. “Come on,” he said, finally, standing from the stool and stretching his legs and arms, measuring the time he had spent lost in his thoughts by how stiff and sore they had become. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

Thanks in no small part to the steady rain, the unwelcoming terrain and the lateness of the hour, there was no one, apart from the sentries, to witness their movements. Damianos moved quickly and with purpose, and Laurent followed close behind, glancing around furtively for any sign of danger that Damianos might miss in his current state of obliviousness. 

Damianos did not tell Laurent where they were going. It was not until they entered the tent – one of the few in which light was still glowing from within – that Laurent realised he was being taken to see Auguste. Nikandros looked up sleepily from a makeshift bed in the corner, acknowledging Damianos’ presence with a weary nod of his head. But Damianos’ eyes were quickly drawn to Laurent, who was crouched by the stretcher on which Auguste was laid out under the watchful eye of his physician. He appeared deathly pale – but apparently well enough to reach up and touch Laurent's face. 

“You’re all right?” Auguste whispered. 

“What a stupid question to ask, in your current condition” Laurent said brusquely, a contrast to the gentle way his hand covered Auguste’s, at his cheek. 

Auguste shuddered, and then hissed… “Don’t say things like that. It hurts to laugh.” 

“How is he, Paschal?” Laurent asked, addressing the physician. 

“I’m fine...” Auguste muttered, weakly.

“Perhaps,” Paschal said, glancing soberly at Auguste, “now that you are resting. But travelling in the wagon was agony and you will not survive the journey like that to Ios. It is out of the question. You must find a place to stop until you are healed.” 

Laurent tuned and directed an icy gaze up at Damianos. Damianos tilted his head, confused by the accusatory nature of it. 

“He’s doing better than he would be if we were still in Arles,” he said, defensively. 

“That will be a small comfort to me and to the Kingdom of Vere if he dies on the way to Ios!” 

“I’m not going to die,” Auguste said… or rather, moaned, unconvincingly. 

“You tell me, Laurent,” Damianos said, the both of them ignoring Auguste for the moment, “where am I supposed to take him where he will be safe from your Uncle’s clutches?” 

“We can’t take him anywhere, if we’re forced to continue the charade that he is _your_ prisoner awaiting trial!” 

“You think that’s the biggest obstacle? Even if he wasn’t posing as my prisoner - these are your lands and your Uncle’s snakes are probably everywhere, waiting to strike! Show me a place where we can hide him and he will be safe!” 

“Will you both shut up?” Auguste whispered fiercely, clearly wishing he had the strength to shout. “If this wound doesn’t kill me, the two of you will.” 

He motioned to them both with his hand, and to Nikandros, who responded by rising, and standing opposite Damianos and Laurent by Auguste’s side. 

“Now if you will listen carefully, I have a plan. It may work, or I may die a painful death – which I’m likely to do, regardless, so what do we have to lose? Either way, we will all have an awfully grand adventure.”


End file.
